


Into the Night

by whatcolourmyeyes



Series: So late so soon [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2273379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatcolourmyeyes/pseuds/whatcolourmyeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monsters aren’t supposed to be vulnerable.<br/>But girls also aren’t supposed to fall in love with monsters, her subconscious reminds her.<br/>(Darcy tells her subconscious to stuff it.)</p><p>Sequel to 'Cold as the Night.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mild Turbulence Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaaand we're back! Sorry if this is absolutely horrible, I've been adjusting to a new place and university life, so things have been pretty hectic, but here it is: the Sequel. Leave your kudos/comments/reviews/first children here! I promise the next chapter will be longer, but this is it for now. I'll try getting something out on a weekly basis and we'll see how that goes.  
> Anyhiddles, much love, my pretties, and happy reading :)

Of _course_ he had to take the window seat. _Bastard._ Darcy glowers at the perfectly sculpted profile blocking the (admittedly less than scenic) view of the airport outside while the Prince of Jerkyheim stares straight ahead. The clench of his jaw is the only sign that he’s even noticed her pointed glare, and Darcy smiles humourlessly at the slight betrayal of his discomfort. _Serves him right, taking the best seat in the jet._

He hates being watched, she’s noticed. _Not_ that she’s been watching him. But it’s impossible to be by someone’s side almost 24/7 for two months and not observe things. And okay, _sometimes_ she’s caught herself staring at him, trying to puzzle him out –  an exercise in futility, really.

Now she does it just to spite him.

They haven’t talked – properly talked – for weeks. Not since Darcy had woken up in tea-stained pyjamas, back in her bed (alone, this time), a piece of paper crumpled up in one of her balled fists.

 _‘No one is born a monster. We are made.’_ Darcy shakes her head at the memory. _What a pretentious douche._ Loki’s nostrils flare at that. Of course Darcy wasn’t _looking_ at him or anything… her peripheral vision is just really, really good. _Riiight. Keep tellin’ yourself that, hon._

Anyway, to make matters even worse, Pepper’s action plan for upping public approval ratings had finally been gone into full force, beginning with a quiet trip to the animal shelter on 92nd (and the ensuing ‘leaked’ photos) and quickly escalating into a more global approach. In other words, Pepper, having decided that the most successful avenue for good publicity (animals, duh) had been exhausted, had turned to the other appeal to the public’s ‘aw’ factor: children. Orphanages in South Korea, schools in Kenya… Darcy’s days have been a blur of unfamiliar faces and languages, her only constant being one tall and snarky god.

Some news agencies have reported supposed improvements at the sites visited by the couple, including reliable running water and more sound infrastructure. Darcy tries not to think too hard about any of that, since it would mean having even more questions. Questions that only Loki can answer. _Unless some other mythical being has been feeling really philanthropic recently, that is._

Pepper hasn’t commented on it, but she’s started giving Darcy a routine Look every time she lands back in New York for a couple days, a strange analytical cocking-of-the-head that Darcy isn’t sure she likes.

“How has this all been working out?” she had asked the last time they met. She didn’t make Darcy answer, returning to business and handing Darcy a small package with the latest schedule. A couple days in Cannes right near the tail end of the film festival, and then interviews in Paris and Berlin. The last day, though, had been blank. (“For you to decide.”)

Darcy had blurted out an answer before even thinking it through: “Stuttgart.” Loki hadn’t reacted to the news at the time, but he stayed at the hotel yesterday, and he hasn’t spoken a word to Darcy, not even for show, for the past day.

“This is your captain speaking,” a tinny voice cuts in on Darcy’s train of thought. As he begins to issue commands in German, she tightens the seatbelt around her hips sharply before pulling out the safety pamphlet from the pocket in front of her one last time, the words blurring together as she squints down at diagrams of grinning passengers pulling on emergency life vests. _God I hate flying._

Is _it hatred? Or is it fear?_ Sometimes Darcy absolutely despises her inner dialogue, especially when it starts sounding like a life coach.

She practices taking deep breaths, trying to stop her brain from summoning images of exploding engines and nose-diving planes. Another crackle over the intercom makes Darcy jolt in her seat. She instinctively looks to her left, catching a loving smile (read: evil, panty-dropping yet mocking smirk) from her darling fiancé, who she notes looks at least slightly more wary of the machine Stark foisted on them, despite how well he hides it.

“Takeoff will commence in just a moment,” the captain continues stiffly. “Our apologies for the delay, Miss Lewis. Prince Odinson.” Said prince cocks one eyebrow, no doubt unimpressed with the inefficiency of humanity as a whole. Darcy isn’t quite sure why he’s even in the plane with her. _Not like he enjoys my company – he won’t even speak to me. Plus he could probably just magically teleport back to New York if he wanted to._

 _And why would anyone_ not _want to?_

Direct transportation from their stopover in Amsterdam to New York sounds better than the eight hour flight currently ahead of them.And while Tony can wax poetic about zipping around in his suit like some kind of vengeful, manly Tinkerbell (this mental image prompts a grudging laugh from Darcy’s companion, who covers it up with a cough and looks out the window), Darcy likes _not_ placing her life in a small aircraft with wings that are- _shit, are they flapping?_

Darcy glances around anxiously, the landscape outside passing more and more quickly, until, with a bump, they’re in the air. Her stomach somersaults, and she grips onto her armrests. _Oh god, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna-_

“You are not going to die, Miss Lewis.”

It’s so unexpected that Darcy actually forgets to be scared shitless for a second.

“Oh, so now you choose to speak to me?” She keeps her voice set at ‘Hushed Whisper,’ just in case someone happens to be watching them. People will do almost anything for an in with a gossip magazine. “And haven’t I told you about not listening in on other people’s thoughts?”

Loki leans in closer, whispering in her ear in a way that might look romantic from afar. He’s good at this game, better than Darcy.

“If you weren’t thinking so _loudly_ I wouldn’t _do_ so, Miss Lewis,” Loki hisses.

“If you weren’t listening you wouldn’t _know_ how loud my thoughts are.”

Loki’s lips twitch.

“You’re being childish. Besides, this fear of yours is unnecessary. Even if something were to happen, I could easily-”

“Childish?” Darcy squeaks when the jet jolts a little. “First of all, this… this machine is _clearly_ a death trap, and secondly, you actually have the gall to accuse me of immaturity after giving me the silent treatment for the past 24 hours?”

“And our little outing to Stuttgart? What was that? Friendly tourism?”

Darcy doesn’t know how to reply, doesn’t know how to explain that somehow she _had_ to see, _had_ to know what it was like. And that she regretted coming the moment their plane had touched down. But the words won’t come out.

“A reminder to keep on your seatbelts, as we will be experiencing some mild turbulence up ahead,” the captain interrupts over the intercom.

The aircraft jerks sharply, and Darcy turns away, concentrating on not throwing up. It feels like her insides are being rearranged, floating upwards in one gravity-defying moment before plummeting back into place. It’s the anticipation that’s the worst part, she thinks. The light, flying feeling right before that deep thud in her core. Soaring but knowing it can’t last.

It’s a lot like being around _him_.

\--

_Well I have brittle bones, it seems_   
_I bite my tongue and I torch my dreams_   
_Have a little voice to speak with_   
_And a mind of thoughts and secrets_


	2. Well hell, hello.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A healthy dose of angst. Probably the darkest this fic is gonna get, though.

It’s dark when Darcy’s eyes flicker open, the loud hum of the plane oddly reminiscent of a refrigerator. _Speaking of which…_ There doesn’t seem to be any sign of the stewardess, and thus no sign of food in Darcy’s near future. Her stomach growls loudly.

Darcy glances to her left (out of habit, she supposes). Loki’s eyes are closed, but he looks almost _too_ still to be properly asleep, his breathing shallow. She considers poking him awake, but, well, that seems about as safe as bothering a hibernating bear.

Bored, Darcy turns on the screen in front of her and is immediately faced with Tony’s seemingly inexhaustible collection of films – some of which she’s pretty sure haven’t come out in theatres yet. She finally settles on a random action movie, one with wooden acting and awful special effects that promises to be amusing.

Darcy looks on disinterestedly as a Russian mob member threatens Mr. ‘Everyman Who Just Got Involved In the Wrong Criminal Organizations – As One Does,’ who growls a cliché one-liner in that all-American way action stars have, and then whips out a gun.

A shuddery gasp, quiet but out of place among the sounds of guns going off and foreign profanities, breaks Darcy’s (not really existent to begin with) concentration on the movie. She tries to ignore it, but then she feels a hand latch around her wrist in a bruising grip.

Darcy tugs out her purple headphones with her free hand and turns to the god beside her. Loki’s cheekbones look particularly gaunt in the white-blue light of the monitor, and there’s an unfamiliar furrow in his brow. He mumbles something hoarsely. Norse, probably.

Thanks to Grouchy’s super-human strength, his hand doesn’t seem to be letting up on its hold any time soon, and Darcy can only sit and watch as his eyes twitch beneath their lids feverishly, his chest rising and falling with each strained breath. She tries to look away, feeling like she’s intruding on something personal, but she can’t ignore the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, and it’s kinda hard to ignore the fact that she’s being used as a human stress ball.

“Loki,” she whispers. “Wake up.”

He doesn’t respond, but he lets out a shaky little breath that sounds dangerously like a _whimper_. An irrational surge of anger fills her at the thought. _Monsters aren’t supposed to be vulnerable._

_Girls aren’t supposed to fall in love with monsters_ , her subconscious reminds her. Darcy tells her subconscious to stuff it. She tries to pull her arm away, but Loki tightens his grip even further (if that’s possible), and a string of runes starts to stream out of his finger tips and up her arms, freezing her in place. Rather than the usual gold of his seiðr, the runes are a bright blue.

They leave her skin tingling as they sink in.

“What the-”

Then everything goes black.

_Well, this doesn’t look good._

The first thing Darcy notices when her eyes adjust to the darkness is that she is most definitely not in Kansas – or rather, in a high-tech jet flying over the Atlantic – anymore. Grey smoke swirls around her feet, and she muffles a cough as she catches sight of Loki kneeling several feet away from her, his face bent toward the floor. She blushes when she realizes that he’s shirtless. _No. Not the time to check him out, Lewis. Just figure out how to get the hell out of here._

An unfamiliar woman stands before Loki, her face impassive. Silver irises burn above a perfect nose and bowed lips painted gold, and her ebony skin seems to glow, her high cheekbones and elegant bone structure highlighted by the shadows. She’s absolutely gorgeous in that freakishly symmetrical way all Asgardians seem to be, and just Darcy’s luck, the goddess’ sheer black dress and fitted metallic breastplate leaves very little to the imagination, confirming her _absolute_ lack of flaws. Skeletal battle armour extends below the woman’s bronze breastplate, metal delicately tracing her rib cage, while small golden strips on her arms have been woven together other into vambraces that remind Darcy of veins.

_Yet another gorgeous goddess. Great. As if the competition wasn’t fierce enough._ Darcy thinks of Sif and her pointed glares, of the countless model-tall beauties who grace the royal Asgardian halls. _Not that I’m competing for Loki, or anything. If Miss Asgard wants him, she can sure as hell have him. Maybe he won’t hate her quite as much._

“You know what to do, Laufeyson,” the goddess utters coldly.

Loki barely even twitches at the name now, but there is a blankness in his gaze when he looks up at the woman and accepts a glowing red blade from her hands.

He hisses as it makes contact with his skin, and Darcy stifles a gasp as she sees blisters raise up on his hands. _Oh Lewis, what have you gotten yourself into now?_ Miss Asgard’s eyes flick to Darcy, and she shakes her head slightly.

“One thousand two hundred and eighty-four,” Loki whispers. “A promise, Hel.” And before Darcy can register what’s happening, he’s levelling the dagger at his own chest and pushing down. Hard.

There’s a moment of shock, and then Darcy breaks the silence, her cries quickly swallowed up by the grey mist.

“NO!” Darcy has never screamed so loudly, has never felt a cry tear itself from her chest like that. She tries running forward, reaching for him, but she’s frozen in place, forced to watch Loki shove the blade in up to its hilt. Darcy sobs until her throat feels raw. “LOKI!”

She sinks to her knees, coughing, and begins to tremble as the cold mist collects around her, brushing against her shoulders, her cheek. It moves with an intent, almost comforting.

“Miss?” Darcy starts as she lifts her chin and takes in the silvery white face in front her. It’s a little girl, no older than 5 or 6. “Are you okay?”

Darcy can only let out a little hiccup, and the girl’s body ripples a little, fog dissipating around the edges. Darcy swallows hard as she realizes that the mist that surrounded her is gone, replaced by more silvery people; men and women in business suits, still carrying ethereal briefcases. A caretaker, mopping uselessly at the rocky floor. _Hel. Of course. This is the underworld. They’re all… dead._ There must be hundreds of them, their freezing almost-there hands brushing against her as they melt out of the shadows.

He’s still kneeling at Hel’s feet, and Darcy watches for any sign of movement. He lets out a wracking cough and Darcy feels her stomach clench in fear. _Please be okay._ The skin around his wound has faded to its natural blue, and Darcy looks on in horror as Loki raises one pale hand to tug the steaming dagger out of his chest. He smiles darkly, his teeth stained red. If he survives this, Darcy is going to _kill_ him.

“Dead enough for you?” Christ, Darcy would wrap her hands around his neck if she could. Rationally, she should know that an immortal being wouldn’t be worth their salt if they were out for the count after one stab. But Darcy can only finally breathe once she sees that shit-eating grin.

Hel simply nods, and Loki spits up blood onto the floor before her.

“Could you…” He doesn’t have to finish the sentence, Hel already disappearing in a whirl of black silk. Alone now, Loki slowly turns toward the crowd of apparitions, wincing.

_This is_ private _, Darce. Get out of here._

“I- ” The word lingers in the air, echoing in the emptiness. “Norns, forgive me.” Loki’s voice cracks. “No, a killer has no right to ask forgiveness. I am so, so sorry,” he whispers in a tiny voice, and in his bright green eyes, Darcy sees the little boy he must have been before the bitterness had set in. Tears are running down his cheeks now, and Darcy can see frost forming on his lashes as the sea of grey bodies converges around him.

His eyes trace over the group, committing each face to memory. When he finally catches sight of Darcy, still half-hidden in the shadows, his face pales.

“No,” he whispers, and his breath catches. “Darcy.”

A thousand emotions flash across his face, but it is the final dawning comprehension, the look of utter betrayal and then horror, that Darcy remembers as she jolts awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if there are any mistakes, I've been juggling uni (3 language classes was a bad idea) and volunteering. Let me know what y'all think :)


	3. Floating and Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the Hel just happened.

Her eyes dart to Loki and everything comes jarringly back into focus. She grows aware of the pins and needles in her left hand, the slight tremour in her knees, the way the cold air cuts through her thin sweater.

Loki’s eyes are already boring into hers, and while not guarded like usual, the look of pure anger in them is enough to scare Darcy a little. She’s never seen him this pissed-off before. Not at her, at least.

And the mere idea that he could actually feel upset at _her_ for what just happened is enough to put Darcy on the offensive.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” She almost forgets to keep her voice down but luckily she remembers Pepper’s warning about keeping up appearances.

“That was New York, Miss Lewis.” The shame in Loki’s eyes is there and gone in an instant. He’s already pulling away, putting his walls up, shifting back into Unapologetic Prick mode. Daring her to despise him just like everyone else.

“Loki-”

“Don’t,” he growls. “One thousand two hundred and eighty-four deaths. That is my debt.”

Darcy thinks back to the glowing blade in Hel’s hands, the goddess’ impassive face as blisters formed on Loki’s hands, as he pushed the weapon into his chest. The steam rising from the still-red metal when he tugged it back out. _How do you best bring down a Frost Giant? Of course. Heat._

“The dagger?”

He nods.

“Hel only admits the dead.”

Darcy’s eyes flick down to his chest, and she finds herself reaching towards him. Loki tenses when she touches him, flinching like she might hurt him. _But really it’s always been the other way around._ Gently, Darcy tugs down on the collar of his V-neck and hesitates only a moment before sliding a hand across his skin, feeling smooth muscle and a steady heartbeat.

Loki’s lips twist bitterly.

“Gods have more than enough deaths to spare. And one of my deaths is near worthless.”

“But your life is _not_ ,” Darcy cuts in. “And you only have one of those, so don’t you dare start thinking like that.”

“Spare me your pity.”

“Spare me your masochism,” she snaps.

They sit in silence then, Darcy’s hand resting over his heart, their eyes locked on each other. Loki’s fingers are still wrapped around her wrist, but he makes no move to push her off.

“Humour me just this once,” Loki finally says. “And tell me something. Why Stuttgart?”

“I needed to see it,” she admits, glancing down at the hollow of his throat, not daring to watch him as she says it. “I needed a reminder of who the true monsters are.”

She had visited the art gallery, of course, had stood on the cobblestone square in front of the old building and breathed in the fall air. But what Darcy really remembers is the hour-long ride to the camp, the gray walls surrounding the museum that stated ‘Sachsenhausen’ in blocky white letters. The remainders of the gas chamber.

Black and white photos of people standing in perfect rows, soldiers shouting down at prisoners in striped work clothes.

Bodies piled on top of each other, barely recognizable as human.

All because of one man, motivated by the hate and cruelty already rooted inside him, not planted there by Thanos or a Tesseract.

For once, Darcy hopes Loki is listening like the over-curious idiot he is, because she can’t bring herself to express this all out loud. It’s a weak reassurance, that he’s not the _worst_ monster. A small comfort, but one a self-pitying god is more likely to accept than the same old rehash of why he isn’t a monster at all.

Or perhaps Darcy is deluding herself, too willing to latch onto the idea that this is all Thanos’ fault, that he wasn’t feeding a flame that was already there.

_The truth is probably somewhere in between. Like always._

_No wonder Loki deals in lies; the truth is so much shiftier._

Darcy hears something rustle behind the curtain that separates their cabin from the front of the jet. She groans when she realizes how they must look: Darcy’s hand under Loki’s shirt, his wrapped around her wrist. Either they need to pull apart in the next two seconds, or one of them needs to take this the next logical step ahead. _The next logical step? Lewis, he’s probably reading your mind right now. Stop it. Just step back. Remove yourself from the situation._

“Miss Lewis?”

His lips curl into a smirk. It sounds a lot like a challenge. _Yup, he knows._ Darcy impulsively crashes her lips against his, both her hands on his chest now as she tries to manoeuvre herself across an armrest that’s digging into her waist and loses her balance. Just then the stewardess walks out, and Darcy couldn’t give less of a shit because God, Loki is kissing her back and it’s more than a little distracting.

Loki lets go of her wrist and wraps his arms around her, his tongue lazily swooping inside her mouth. Darcy’s somehow managed to swivel in her seat to face him better, and Loki must have magicked away the armrest, because they’re crushed against each other now, her hands sandwiched between his chest and her boobs.

“Commencing landing,” the captain’s voice interrupts. _Buzzkill._

Loki pulls away first, and Darcy flushes when she turns and catches sight of a very pink stewardess trying to subtly not look at either of them.

“At this time, we ask that you please put away all electronic devices and refasten your seatbelts.”

The descent is awkward, Darcy anxiously playing with the ends of her seatbelt as Loki looks out at the small flashing lights of JFK International Airport. It’s should only be around six o’clock based on Pepper’s ETA, but the autumn sky is already growing dark.

“Welcome back to New York.”

Darcy fiddles with the hem of her ‘relatable but fashionable’ green cowl neck sweater, grateful that Pepper let her wear normal skinny jeans and her Converse. Loki looks gorgeous and deadly as usual in his dark pants, V-neck shirt (the collar slightly wrinkled from her grabby hands). He buttons up a navy blazer and then slings a carry-on over his shoulder like it’s perfectly normal and they’re just a couple back from a trip. Which they are, ostensibly.

“Darling, you look fine.”

Loki murmurs something additional in Norse and Darcy feels her hair pile up into a bun at the back of her head, while she’s sure his magic is wiping away weeks’ worth of baggy eyes and fixing her lipstick.

“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” she answers.

He flashes her his 100 megawatt smile, and drapes an arm around her hips as he guides her out of the plane, along the seemingly endless corridors, through the glass exit, past the paparazzi with their flashing cameras  vying for a spot to get a better look at the famous couple, and straight toward the black SUV already waiting for them.

“Shall we give them something to talk about?” Loki asks suddenly. She should be suspicious of the mischievous look on his face, but Darcy just nods. He drops his carry-on to the ground and reaches up, tangling his hands in her curls as he kisses her once more hard on the mouth. There’s another flash of cameras, and then Loki lets go and opens the car door. “After you, darling.”

Pepper’s already waiting for them as a moderately more dishevelled Darcy slides her butt into the car. She apologetically hands Darcy a cell phone as Loki slips in and shuts the door.

“Darcy, it’s your mother.”

\--

_I'll do whatever you say to me in the dark._  
Scared I'll be torn apart by a wolf in a mask,  
a familiar name on a birthday card.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, we're finally back to the fluff (fluffy at least relative to all the excitement of last chapter). Let me know what you think about what's going on, if you know what the hell's going on, and happy reading!!!  
> ~ eyesy


	4. Like Mother, Like Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy comes clean to her mom, things with Loki get messy real fast, and much is explained.

“Mom?”

“Oh, sweetie, how are you?”

“I’m… I’m fine.” Darcy doesn’t know what more to say, and she lets out a deep breath, wincing at the static on the other end. There’s a reason she’s put off this conversation. It’s only a matter of time before the whole ‘I got engaged a month ago without telling you’ thing comes up. She makes one last fervent wish for her mother to let her off the hook with an airy ‘Oh, Nicholas explained the situation.’ _Right, Darce. Because while you were off doing publicity stunts, Mom was getting on a first-name basis with Director Fury._ “How are you and dad?”

“Good, we’re good.”

Darcy can hear her father bustling about in the background, dishes clinking in the sink. Just over the sound of running water, she can make out his familiar voice.

“Ask her about that Prince fellow!”

_Oh dear. So it begins…_

“Now,” Mrs. Lewis sighs. “We got the oddest phone call from Jane this morning.” _I’m betting it wasn’t about astrophysics._ “Darce?”

“Yes?” Darcy grits out, wincing as she angles her head as far as humanly possible away from Loki and his stupidly amused face, watching everything outside zip by as they turn onto the highway. She contemplates playing dumb, but she’s already well on her way to winning Worst Daughter of the Year Award without any help.

“What _exactly_ were you doing on national television?” _Shit, does news really travel that fast? Pepper_ promised _me it was ‘just a little network in Berlin.’_ Darcy shoots a betrayed look at Ms. Potts, but she’s made herself busy tapping away at her personal Stark phone… leading Darcy to wonder just how many of these things Tony leaves lying around for awkward phone calls with research assistants’ parents. “Of course, rumours are bound to happen, what with Jane and her choice of fiancé-” Darcy notes a hint of pride there. “- but now everyone’s saying that _you’re_ getting _married_. To Thor’s brother… the dark one.”

“He only _has_ one,” Darcy mutters, clutching the phone even tighter. She wraps her left arm around her waist and curls in further on herself, cursing her stupid sweater with its stupid ‘fashionable’ neckline and its stupid thin fabric. _Seriously, it’s fall already. The AC doesn’t need to be cranked up this high._ She side-eyes Loki, who, in typical Jötunn fashion, doesn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable.

“Darce, please be serious. The White House just released a statement about ‘solidifying interplanetary alliances through a political match.’” The disdain in her voice is palpable. Mrs. Lewis isn’t particularly fond of politicians. _Or political science degrees, for that matter._ “And now with all these pictures of you with that prince… Speaking of which, isn’t this Loki the same one who tried to take over New York?”

The phone’s volume seems disproportionately loud in the otherwise near-silent van, and if it were possible to make herself any smaller, Darcy would really love to know how. She’s getting a crick in her neck from leaning against the glass window, and her hands are freezing. Pepper is still on her phone, but Loki can probably hear the entire exchange, and it’s not making things any less awkward.

“All this talk about a political marriage… it’s practically medieval,” her mother goes on. “Besides, your father isn’t King of Earth, whatever he might say about himself.” (Darcy starts as a blue blazer lands on her lap. “You look ridiculous shivering like that,” Loki whispers. _Gee, you really know how to make a girl feel good._ “Oh, you have no idea.” _Dork._ ) “Honey?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a smart girl; you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. But what on earth have you gotten yourself into?” Darcy doesn’t answer. It’s a fair question, really, but an honest response would hardly inspire confidence. “These aren’t just rumours, are they?” her mother prompts.

“I… will you be mad at me if I say they’re true?”

Darcy bites her lip when the line goes quiet.

“Oh, Darce,” her mother murmurs finally. _Shit, she’s sniffling._ “Of course we’re not mad at you.” Darcy lets out a sigh of relief. “You just deserve to be happy, honey. Are you happy? Do you… care for him?”

In that moment Darcy couldn’t be more grateful for the blessing that is her mom. A woman, who despite her propensity for phone interrogations and drama, is subtle enough to know not to bring up the L word.

_Do I care for him? That’s an easy answer._

“Yes,” Darcy whispers. “I do. More than I probably should. He’s impossible, but…” She trails off, not wanting to complete that thought.

“Then that’s what matters.” Darcy thinks she hears relief in her mother’s voice; that, and something else. Her voice grows thick. “You’re all grown up, now.”

“I’m pretty sure we established that back when I graduated from university and officially moved out,” Darcy comments dryly.

“You could at least allow your own mother a moment of reflection on how time flies and the miracle that is child-rearing, my little smarty-pants.”

“What can I say? I’m my mother’s daughter.”

“That you are. And your parents are _so proud_ of you.” Darcy’s eyes may or may not get a little watery at that. _Oh Darce, you sentimental jerk._ “But enough of this silliness,” Mrs. Lewis continues, perking up. “When do we get to meet the lucky guy, hmm?”

“Mom.” _I don’t think that’s really the best idea._

“Of course I’m sure you’ve already got it all planned. We look forward to seeing you two.”

“ _Mom_.”

“See you soon! I love you, sweetie.”

Darcy pulls a face at her reflection.

“Love you, too.”

The SUV pulls up to Stark Tower as Darcy hangs up, and she lets out a loud yawn that seems to last from the moment she exits the car to the second before the elevator doors _ping_ shut behind her on the 91 st floor. She catches Loki rolling his eyes at her as she swipes their apartment door open.

“What?” she asks, stretching her arms languidly.

“Aren’t you being a touch dramatic, Miss Lewis?”

“Dramatic? Says the guy who took over a planet to throw a temper tantrum. And who, I might add, _went to the underworld_ because he felt guilty-”

Darcy gulps as her brain processes what she said just a second too late. The light in Loki’s eyes has already gone out like a Christmas tree in a blackout. _Wrong move, Lewis._

“Felt ‘guilty’?” Loki growls. And for the first time, he lets his mask fall. Anger and sadness and a thousand other emotions flit across his face, warring with each other, and now Darcy understands why he tells lies so much. He has so much to hide. “What does an innocent know of the weight of a thousand souls? I played at being a king while I acted with the principles of a jealous boy. I killed, Miss Lewis. And I laughed. One thousand two hundred and eighty-four deaths, and I saw only another display of power. How does someone do penance for such crimes? That kind of red cannot be washed off one’s ledger, and mine is _black_ with blood.” _Why, oh why, can I not just keep my mouth shut?_ “I know much of Hel’s morbid currency, and my own death is nothing to the lives I stole. No apology will be enough. No suffering will ever clear the balances. But I will, at least, pay my respects - however worthless they may be. So do not speak to me of guilt, Darcy Lewis.”

“You weren’t acting alone, Loki. You weren’t- you weren’t yourself.” It sounds weak, even to her. Loki certainly thinks so.

“Is that truly any reassurance?” He laughs mirthlessly. “I was foolish enough to make a deal with a devil. Any havoc wrought is mine to atone for, and my choice of friends reflects no better on me.”

_Oh yay, back to the self-loathing._

“Jesus, why do you keep doing this to yourself?” Darcy snaps. “You talk about yourself like you’re some unrepentant killer. And, by the way, don’t you dare even bring up the ‘monster’ word or I _will_ slap you. Loki, a couple hours ago, I saw you _kill_ yourself. I saw you _stab yourself_. To _death_. With a knife. Like, I’m not sure how well-versed you are with the Fucked-Up Things People Should Never, Ever Have To See, but that’s definitely on the list. Or it is now, at least.”

“It was not for your eyes.”

“Yeah, well, you and your stupid glow-y blue magic _made_ it for my eyes.”

Loki looks alarmed.

“… blue? My seiðr is-”

“Yeah, I know, it’s gold. That’s not my point.” Loki still looks confused. “Dude, you need to get past this whole ‘blue’ thing. So you’re the colour of a blueberry. Apparently you have blue voodoo, too. Can we please move on? I am _trying_ to knock some sense into you, and you’re making it really hard.” His lips twitch, and Darcy takes courage in that moment of normality. “Look, all I’m trying to say is that if that isn’t remorse, I sure as hell don’t know what is. I _know_ an apology will never be enough; I know nothing will. I mean, obviously I don’t _really_ know, and I’m not gonna pretend I understand what’s going on inside that box-of-cats brain of yours. But Loki, I am certain of this: you… your life, it’s worth more than you seem to think. And I don’t mean as Odin’s chess piece or as King of Jotunheim. I mean, like… just you. On your own. _You_ matter.”

It’s sad, how this seems to be a revelation for him; how the anger seems to slide right off his face.

“Miss Lewis-”

“Please,” Darcy begs. “Stop talking.”

Loki takes a step toward her and then falters, his eyes silently asking for permission. Darcy nods, and he moves closer, wrapping hesitant arms around her, as though she’s a skittish animal that might pull away at any moment.

“Please understand. When I saw you there… you were as grey as the rest of them,” he murmurs into her ear. “I could never- Miss Lewis, if I were to harm you…”

“Loki? You are really bad at following directions.”

He muffles a laugh in the curtain of her tangled brown hair, pulling her closer into his chest, and Darcy just breathes in that familiar Loki smell, and lets herself simply enjoy this. Whatever ‘this’ is.

_“Do you… care for him?”_

_“Yes…_

_More than I probably should.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this covers any last explanations anyone needed about the whole Hel thing.  
> A huge thank you to everyone reading this story (hopefully you're enjoying it so far). This chapter was a pretty intense one - at least on my end - so I hope I handled things well. I promise, that there will definitely be actual fluff coming up next chapter. With, of course, some drama, because what's Tasertricks without drama?  
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated!!!


	5. Actual 12-year-old Darcy Lewis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo much fluff. Like, pretty much all fluff. In which Darcy doesn't act her age, and it's really fun.

“ _Madam Lewis_.” JARVIS is now affecting a distinctively fed-up tone, but this has turned into a war of the wills, and Darcy will not bow.

Tony’s A.I. appears to have assumed the role of ‘most persistent parent ever to be saddled with a teenager,’ the teenager in this case being the _very much grown-up_ Darcy Lewis… whose sleep schedule is, admittedly, still stuck somewhere in grade twelve. The initial _ring_ of the morning alarm – set at the unreasonable hour of 10:00 a.m. – has been replaced by sounds to the tune of ‘car alarm meets shrieking baby.’

Darcy tugs her pillow over her head and slips further under her covers, one arm risking the cold to creep out from under the duvet and flail uselessly at the alarm clock on her bedside table, its evil numerals doubtless glowing accusingly back at her.

“ _Madam Lewis_ ,” JARVIS repeats, wheedling now. “ _Please get up._ ”

Darcy is caught somewhere between respect for Tony and his sassy A.I., and also a bit of hatred at him. _Seriously, a sentient alarm clock? I don’t need to be guilt-tripped at this ungodly hour._ At least the crummy L.L. Bean clock at her own apartment wouldn’t have hurt feelings if she ignored it.

The car alarms start to morph into fire truck sirens. _Fuck you, JARVIS._

Then her door creaks open.

“Miss Lewis.”

Never have two words made Darcy leap out of her bed so fast (holding her duvet up to her chest – she’s not making that pyjama mistake a second time).

“Dude, what are you doing in my room?”

Loki ignores her question, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms. Darcy’s pretty sure that most CEOs would pay to have the subtly confident body language that Loki seems to exude at every waking moment. Whether intentionally or not, his current pose also grants Darcy a comprehensive view of his long legs in tight-fitting dark pants and his defined forearms, accentuated by the rolled-up cuffs of his denim button-down. _He does have every reason to be confident, looking like that._

“Order JARVIS to cease this racket at once,” Loki growls over the sound of the simulated sirens.

“Why don’t you?” Darcy replies petulantly, keeping her eyes at floor level, not wanting to trail them back up to his face and reveal her less than casual appraisal of his _damn fine_ form.

 “It won’t listen to me.” He sounds put-out. _Probably Tony’s idea of payback for the phone incident… never mess with his tech, or he’ll mess with you._ “Miss Lewis, I will ask you one more time… turn this off.”

“It doesn’t really sound like you’ve asked me even once. I’d describe it as less a _request_ , and more an… imperious imperative.” She mentally high-fives herself for reaching that level of alliteration only a couple minutes after waking up. “I’m not some kitchen wench to be ordered about. And seriously, how did you get in here?”

Loki rolls his eyes.

“Through the door.”

“Yeah, but see, the door was _locked_.”

“Have you no imagination, Miss Lewis? I could easily teleport into this room, you think I can’t open a locked door?” Loki doesn’t seem to see any flaw in this train of thought, though he’s momentarily distracted by the insinuation on his powers. JARVIS cranks up the volume and even Darcy winces. “Miss. Lewis. Tell JARVIS to silence these alarms _immediately_.”

He’s not quite shouting, but he’s close.

“Use the magic word.” Loki’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “‘Please’? The magic word is…” Loki looks at her like she’s growing a third eye. “Oh, right, superior alien race and all that… I forgot that you never learned basic kindergarten manners. Repeat after me: ‘Darcy, please tell JARVIS to turn off the alarm.’”

“Miss Lewis, please tell JARVIS to turn off the alarm… before I disable the entire system.” The alarms quieten at that, and though Loki’s lips curl upward, Darcy still isn’t entirely sure that he _won’t_ act on that threat.

“JARVIS?” she says hurriedly. “I’m up.”

The sirens stop immediately.

“ _Very good, Madam._ ”

“Now shoo, Loki. I need to get dr-” Loki flicks a hand at her, and Darcy finds herself tottering in her old heeled booties, skinny jeans, and a comfy sweater. _He even picked the purple one._ It’s her favourite sweater, actually, but Darcy’s only feeling so generous. The tangles have been magicked out of her hair, her glasses (lenses perfectly clear for once) are balanced on the bridge of her nose, and her mouth tastes distinctly… minty. She runs her tongue over her teeth to double-check and then levels a glare at the Norse god still leaning in her doorway. “Dude, did you brush my teeth?”

“I have orders from Ms. Potts to take you out today, and since you’ve already delayed us long enough, I thought I would expedite the process.” Loki then pulls a leather bomber jacket literally out of thin air and holds it out to her. “What?” he asks when Darcy continues to stare at him, mystified. “It’s cold outside.” He rolls his shoulders and a dark grey peacoat settles over him. “Shall we?” he asks.

“Ummm… sure?”

Loki finally cracks a grin that could light up a stadium.

“You should see your face, Miss Lewis. It’s almost as though you’ve never seen magic before.”

_No, I’ve just never seen carefree Loki before…_

_I like him._

It’s what Darcy could say. But she doesn’t. Instead, she goes the pragmatic route.

“I want pizza.”

“Isn’t it a bit early for this?” Loki asks as he opens the door for her, the bell jangling behind them. Darcy gives him doe eyes and he orders a slice for both of them anyway.

“Life is too short _not_ to eat pizza when you want pizza,” Darcy answers around a cheesy mouthful as they walk back out into the bustle of people exploring the culinary wonder that is Chelsea Market.

“Life _isn’t_ short,” Loki grumbles.

“Yours isn’t, maybe.” _Way to be morbid, Lewis._ Darcy quickly lightens the conversation. “But you’re enough of a daredevil that I think it goes double for you anyway… Wanna go to the park?”

_Nice. Non-sequiturs… Edgy. Fresh. New. I like it._

_Shut up, Brain._

“We are not tourists, Miss Lewis, and I have seen quite enough of Central Park.” Darcy recalls a very different Loki, muzzled and waiting for punishment, standing by those famous steps as the Avengers ate shawarma. _Like a puppy leashed to a bike rack._

“I meant another park,” she says, pulling him towards the exit. Loki doesn’t respond, but his curiosity soon gets the best of him as they make their way up a flight of metal steps.

“What kind of park is on a _bridge_?”

“A cool one, that’s what.” Darcy skips ahead of him, spinning as she takes in her favourite view of Manhattan, walking parallel to the old train tracks overgrown with clumps of greenery. “Didn’t Pepper ever take you to see the High Line?”

“Surprisingly enough, sight-seeing was not on my initial itinerary,” Loki answers dryly.

“Well then, meet your official N.Y. tour guide. This is the city’s famous High Line park, actually built along a former section of the central railroad…”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, shut up. I was trying to educate you.” Darcy finishes her pizza in a few more bites, abandoning her commentary. “Sometimes I’m not sure if you’ll even know what a train _is_ , Loki.” She leans against the railing and looks out across the city.

“And I’m not Thor. I educated myself about other realms.” Darcy squeaks as Loki comes up behind her, wrapping an arm tightly around her waist. “There are people watching,” he adds, by way of explanation.

_Of course there are. There are always people watching._

Darcy goes up on her tiptoes and whispers in Loki’s ear.

“Okay, laugh happily like I’ve just told you I think you’re the most incredible man I’ve ever met and you look like a Gap model.”

“But…”

“You look like a Gap model. There, now I said it.” She flushes at her directness. _He knows he’s hot, Darce. Why are you so embarrassed about it now?_

It works, though. Loki laughs, tightening his hold on her, and Darcy wonders if it’s genuine or not.

She can’t tell.

“Um, excuse me?” A teenaged girl walks up to Darcy, a silver Stark phone in her hands. _Good timing, Loki._ “Are you… Darcy Lewis?”

“Yup, that would be me.”

“I’ve read so much about you!” _Wait, what? What could there possibly be to know?_ _I’m gonna have to talk to Pepper about what exactly she’s been up to while we were away._ “The amount of work you’ve done with only a Poli Sci degree is… incredible!” The girl turns pink when she realizes how that sounded, and she back-tracks. “Not that… I only meant, I’m applying to NYU this year, and because of you, I’ve managed to convince my mom that I actually have a shot at, like, real jobs.” She turns an even darker shade as she notices Loki. “Oh, was I interrupting? Oh, sorry, I…”

“It’s fine, honey. My advice is: go for it. You’ll be fine – just remember that sometimes the best opportunities are the ones you don’t plan on.” Darcy smiles in a way that she hopes looks encouraging, or at least competent enough to convince anyone taking photos that she’s capable of being a queen.

“Could I- that is, may I…” The girl holds out her phone hesitantly, stumbling over her words now, and Loki takes over.

“But of course,” he murmurs, taking the device from her hands. The girl’s cheeks are bright red as Darcy tugs her closer for a photo.

The girl stutters her thanks as Loki hands her back the phone, and Darcy rests her head on his shoulder as they continue walking down the High Line.

“See? You could make friends if you tried,” Darcy whispers. “ _She_ seemed quite taken with you.”

“Jealous, Miss Lewis?”

“Of course not!” she squawks indignantly. He laughs, and Darcy turns pink when she realizes that she’s taking him seriously again. _Very smooth, Agent._

“It’s not the making friends that’s difficult,” Loki clarifies. “It’s the keeping them.”

“You make it harder when you insist on playing pranks on them,” Darcy mumbles, thinking of Sif and her (still gorgeous, in her opinion) hair.

“Ah, so dear Sif told you that particular story already.” Loki tries – and fails – to sound repentant.

“You should try out forgiveness sometime,” Darcy tells him. “You know, giving it… Asking for it… I’m hearing it’s all the rage these days.”

“A fleeting trend, no doubt.”

“Oh, really? Well how does falling into those tracks sound?” Darcy asks, nudging him with her hip. “Merely fleeting?”

“Remember what I said about forgiveness, Miss Lewis. Besides, you couldn’t knock me over if you tried. What danger could you possibly pose?”

“Just remember, Mr. High & Mighty, you’d look pretty silly if you happened to take a tumble right about now…” But before she can make a move, Loki spins her into a tight hug, pinning her arms at her sides.

“You were saying, Miss Lewis?” His voice is huskier, and they both stand frozen, not knowing where to go from here. _Oh, what the hell._ Her heart racing, Darcy slants her head upwards and crashes her lips against his for a kiss that lasts only a few ( _fleeting_ ) seconds. Loki pulls away abruptly and blinks, his pupils blown wide.

“Now _that_ : _that_ is dangerous, Miss Lewis,” he says, clearing his throat. Darcy puts some distance back between them, running ahead in case she just seriously miscalculated. _Out-run the awkwardness, Lewis._ _That’s it. No, keep running._ “That’s hardly fair play,” Loki shouts at her retreating back.

“Pot, meet kettle,” she yells over her shoulder, and he chases after her, laughing.

As Darcy bursts through the door into Stark Tower, she turns around and smirks at Loki, who comes to a halt right beside her, his hair messy from wind. She knows that he let her win the race from the subway, but she sticks her tongue out at him anyway.

“Darcy?”

“Tony!” Darcy quickly finger-brushes her hair, blushing. She feels like a twelve-year-old whose teacher caught her running in the halls.

“Bruce has been getting hangry, so I ordered in Chinese before the big guy makes a surprise visit.”

“Would that have anything to do with your penchant for prodding him until he gets grumpy by any chance?” Darcy asks.

Tony ignores her, directing his attention to Loki.

“It would also… not be entirely unhelpful if Reindeer Games were to be a dear and share his wealth of knowledge with us puny humans.” Only Tony can make a request sound like pulling teeth.

“Mr. Stark, are you requesting aid? You need only ask.”

“All I’m saying is, SHIELD’s been getting some strange readings recently. Around the area of Reykjavik, or however the hell you pronounce that.” Loki looks intrigued. “It’s really fun stuff, if you like astrophysics,” Tony adds, turning back to Darcy.

Right on cue, her phone buzzes.

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll go deal with this,” she answers, waving her phone. “Loki? Play nice.”

“I am ever the gentleman, Miss Lewis.”

_Oh great._

“Don’t kill each other, alright?”

Loki salutes her as she walks into the elevator, unlocking her phone and pulling up the latest text.

“ _Darcy – Great job at the High Line today. I couldn’t have planned better myself. Go check it out... – Pepper_ ”

Darcy sighs as she lets herself into the apartment. Shrugging off Loki’s magical bomber jacket, she shuffles over to her bedroom and flops onto her mattress before grabbing her laptop and booting it up.

_Let’s see what all this fuss is about._

The video Pepper linked her to is low-quality, but it’s still weird seeing herself on camera, arm in arm with Loki. After enduring thirty seconds’ worth of blurry close-ups of her face, Darcy scrolls down to the comments section. _This is a bad idea._

After at least seven different comments about her boobs, Darcy can assert that this was, indeed, a bad idea. One string, however, catches her attention.

**dantheman** : is it bad that i find that loki dude hot? #nohomo (4 hours ago)  
 **LokiLover9** : lucky bitch (3 hours ago)  
 **neverberoyals** : will & kate, move over haha (1 hour ago)  
 **kt382** : the way he looks at her *sigh*(30 min ago)  
 **MrsCap** : ikr his eyes never left her face (27 min ago)  
 **HulkinOut** : so fuckin cute ahhhhhhh (12 min ago)

“This is stupid,” Darcy grumbles to no one in particular, closing the tab and shutting down her computer before she takes any of it to heart. She slumps onto her pillow, trying to forget about it. Trying to keep out the thoughts of ‘yeah, we are cute, aren’t we?’ _Stop over-thinking everything, Darce. Stop._

At some point, she manages to fall asleep, and by the time she wakes up, it’s already six. Making her mind up that she’s going to make dinner, she pads over to the kitchen, halting when she notices Loki already standing over the stove.

“Miss Lewis.”

“What are you doing?”

“Making dinner,” he says, like it’s obvious. _I mean, it_ is _obvious. But still, what? Since when could Loki cook? And cook well, by the looks of that sauce._ Loki stirs a pot calmly, tapping his bare feet against the tiled floor as he hums to himself. He snaps his fingers like the show-off he is, and the elements all turn off at once. The pasta drains itself while Loki whips out two bowls and starts ladling noodles and tomato sauce.

Too weirded-out to know how to respond, Darcy announces her migration to the living room, and drops onto the couch. She turns on the TV and mindlessly watches the news as she waits.

 Seconds later, Loki slips beside her, sliding a plate of hot food onto the table across from her.

“Miss Lewis?”

The anchor has just introduced some footage of their trip to Berlin, and Darcy quickly shoves a forkful of penne into her mouth.

“This is delicious,” she says after swallowing a mouthful of perfectly cooked noodles. _Trust Loki to make it flawlessly._

“You’re welcome.”

“I hadn’t said thank y-”

“It was implied. Not everything has to be said, Miss Lewis.”

Darcy mulls over that as she digs into her noodles, her eyes still fixed on the picture onscreen, a smiling Loki tugging her closer for a kiss outside JFK.

\--

_Just a young heart confusing my mind,  
but we're both in silence_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to right - I started last night and finished it up today. Just in time to start studying for mid-terms!!!  
> This chapter was longer than previous ones, and I'm hoping that the same can be said for future chapters, but it really depends. This one just tied itself together really nicely. I hope you guys like it :)  
> By the way, the places I referenced, Chelsea Market and the High Line, are both very real, and very cool, places in NYC. So if you're ever in Manhattan, I highly recommend checking them out!


	6. At a Loss for Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury has news, and Darcy is not gonna like it. Also, tickle fight! Unapologetic fluff.

“I want to get out of here,” Darcy groans as she opens the apartment door. Thor had somehow convinced Loki to come downstairs and work out with the other Avengers (and by ‘convinced,’ she means that there may have been one or two insinuations as to Loki’s courage or lack thereof), which meant that for once he wasn’t skulking around the living room.

“Have you seen this?” Jane asks, wandering into the kitchen and dropping a pile of newspapers onto the marble countertop beside Darcy’s plate of toast – still untouched – and what must be her third cup of coffee. “Is there really nothing else they could be reporting on?”

“Trust me, I’ve seen it.” She takes a seat. “Pepper’s put me on house arrest.” She glares at the obnoxious headlines littered across the table as though holding each one individually responsible for keeping her indoors over the past week.

“Well, on the bright side, the press loves you,” Jane sighs. She slips onto a stool and flips open her morning paper with a loud snap. “Eat your breakfast.”

Her tone brooks no argument, and Darcy reluctantly takes a bite of bread. The 91st floor of Stark Tower is still on lockdown after an attempt to go pick up Starbucks turned into an unwanted photo op. Some idiotic journalist had since decided to start an Occupy Stark Tower movement, or it’s starting to feel that way; it’s impossible to get in or out of the building without wading through a sea of reporters and flashing cameras.

Steve and Tony have tried their best to divert media attention whenever possible, but the ultimate sting to Stark’s ego has been realizing that he doesn’t compare to the new golden girl. (Pepper had whispered that he’s jealous, but had promptly started to cough rather convincingly when he walked by and asked them – grouchily, Darcy thought – ‘what they were on about.’)

Jane’s phone buzzes, and she bites her lip as she looks down at the Caller I.D.

“Director?”

“Tell him we’re eating breakfast,” Darcy stage whispers.

Jane shakes her head, and her eyes widen at whatever Fury is saying. She turns to Darcy and hands her the Stark phone.

“It’s for you.”

“Good morning, Fury.”

“I’ll spare you the bullshit, Agent.” Darcy’s pretty sure no one would ever accuse Director Fury of being tactful, but getting on Fury’s nerves is Loki’s job, so she settles on a noncommittal grunt, thinking how she’d _appreciate_ a little sugar-coating right now. This stupid morning phone call undoubtedly has something to do with the wedding, and the less she has to think about _that_ , the better. “Loki needs to get his leather-clad ass onto the Jötunn throne before his regent starts getting ideas.” Darcy raises her eyebrows. _Fury admitting he needs Loki’s help? Begrudgingly, mind you, but still…_ “Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t,” he grumbles, as though anticipating her unspoken disbelief. “Like it or not, Lewis, you can’t avoid the fact that you two lovebirds gotta get married. Stat.”

“Because I had completely forgotten about that whole aspect of an _arranged marriage_ , Nicolas.”

Jane grabs a pen and scribbles something on the edge of the Classifieds page before sliding it down the counter toward Darcy. _‘Looks like Loki’s rubbing off on you.’ Oh please._ Jane even has the audacity to add a winky face beside it.

“I mean as soon as possible, Lewis.”

“How soon is that?” Darcy asks, taking another bite of toast. She grabs the pen with her free hand and crosses out Jane’s little message. Three times, just to be clear. She thinks she hears the pen tear through the paper a tiny bit.

“You have two weeks.”

Darcy drops her toast.

“ _Two weeks_ -” She stops herself before her unintentional squeak rises to a pitch audible only to canines. Jane is staring open-mouthed at her, a cup of coffee frozen half-way on its journey between the table and her mouth. Two weeks until the wedding means two weeks until the wedding _night_ … Her brain doesn’t seem to recognize the seriousness of the situation, instead rushing to compile all its mental footage of Loki shirtless. Loki kissing her. Loki wearing a leather jacket. _Why_ does _he look so good in leather? No, Darcy!_   _Not helpful right now. Enough of that!_

“Lewis?”

“Does-” Darcy clears her throat. “Does Loki know about this?”

“We thought it would be in everyone’s best interest if you told him.”

“ _I_ have to tell him?”

“Look, Lewis: he’s not going to take this any better than you.” Darcy opens her mouth to argue that point but Fury barrels on. “Don’t tell me you’re taking it ‘perfectly well’ because we both know you’re not.” _If only you knew._ “And we both know that Real Power won’t be any more pleasant after this bit of news.”

“What, so you’d rather that he be mad at _me_?”

“He won’t be mad at _you_ , Darcy.” She’s not oblivious to the evident strain in Fury’s voice. _From ‘Agent’ to ‘Darcy.’ Something clearly has him worried._ “Loki’s feelings should be the least of your worries.”

“Oh, right, I forgot. It’s not like fiancés should like each other or anything.” _Not that you had much of a chance at that to begin with. Stupid,_ stupid _Darcy Lewis. You’re barely friends, and once you tell Loki the news, you’ll be right back at Square One._ “S.H.I.E.L.D. is just _great_ at this whole matchmaking thing.”

“Agent…” _Oh, back to ‘Agent,’ are we?_

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Fury lets out a huff that could be interpreted as relief. “But on one condition…”

Once Darcy hangs up the phone, she viciously attacks the rest of the toast on her plate. She even eats the crusts. Jane doesn’t say anything until Darcy is finished her third cup of coffee for the day.

“So, you’re visiting your parents.”

It’s not a question – Jane has enough experience with Darcy’s one-sided phone conversations to know what’s going on – but it does break the silence, and Darcy would be grateful for that even if Jane had started speaking astrophysics at her right now.

“Just for a week.”

“With Loki.”

Darcy nods, trying not to contemplate that particular catastrophe. _At least Mom will be happy about this._ She carries her dishes over to the sink and starts cleaning them, turning back to Jane when she realizes that she still hasn’t said anything. Jane shoots her an expectant look.

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to tell him?”

“Right now?” Jane just flashes Darcy a smile that says, ‘I’m making you do this if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.’ It’s mildly terrifying. “I mean, of course I am!” Darcy revises, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “No time like the present.”

As usual, Darcy starts second-guessing herself once it’s already too late.

_‘This will be easy,’ she said. ‘Like ripping off a band-aid,’ she said. Thanks a lot, Jane._ Darcy fidgets as the elevator door opens onto the Fitness Centre, mentally cursing Dr. Jane Foster and her unapologetic optimism. Looking past the rows of Stark employees on the treadmills, Darcy automatically seeks out the reason she came down here at all. She casts a cursory glance at Steve, wailing away at a punching bag in a pair of tight-fitting sweatpants – _God bless America_ – and at Tasha and Clint spotting each other at the weights station.

When she finally locates her darling beloved, he’s standing in fighting stance, glaring at an equally shirtless Thor. _If Tony were here he’d probably have something inappropriate to say._

“Loki!”

He ignores her, jumping forward and _holy shit he moves fast._ Thor barely moves aside in time, and he still looks a little less sure on his feet. Loki takes advantage of that momentary imbalance to trip him. Darcy stares open-mouthed, not sure whether she should be more worried for Thor or Loki. _They’re both practically indestructible, right?_ She finds herself rooting for Loki despite herself. There’s an incredible grace in his ferocity, and admires the movement of his back muscles as he twists and weaves around his stronger brother. She jumps at the feeling of hands at her waist, warm through the thin fabric of her T-shirt.

“Hello, darling.”

She tempers her breathing, turning around to face Loki.

“Really? A double?” Darcy asks coolly, not a little proud of herself for _sounding_ self-assured, at least. “You know, it isn’t fair that you can just disobey every law of science and magically appear in two places at once.”

“Are you impressed?” _Well, yes. And you know it, too. But I won’t give you the satisfaction of hearing me say it._ He’s standing quite close to her, and his hands fall to her hips; she’s surprised, before she remembers that they have an audience of Stark employees trying to catch sidelong glances at the famous couple. It’s easy to fall into this public routine. She allows herself to take him in for a moment, blushing when he catches her not-so-subtle appreciation of post-workout Norse God.

“I have to tell you something,” she blurts out, trying to diffuse the tension between them. _Wow, great diversion, Lewis. Every time I think you can’t possibly make things any more uncomfortable…_

“Yes, Miss Lewis?” Loki pulls her ever so slightly closer, the tips of his fingers casually drawing patterns against her skin through the barely-there cotton. This naturally makes her think of his hands being… other places. Which reminds her of the wedding night. Which reminds her of why she’s here right now instead of watching Friends re-runs in her PJs. _God, he’s distracting._

Collecting herself, Darcy is about to open her mouth and just get it over with when she is conveniently interrupted.

“Loki!”

_Well thank fuck for Thor._ He’s still fighting the double, but as he tugs it into a painful-looking headlock, he gives Loki an exasperated look reminiscent of someone asking a dog’s owner to call their pet off.

“My apologies, brother,” Loki answers, the double disappearing in a flash of gold. _Brother?_ A slip of the tongue, perhaps, but Darcy smiles to herself at this small step of progress.

“You fought well, Loki,” Thor booms, rising to his feet and making his way over to the locker room. He ruffles Darcy’s hair as he passes by. “Good morrow, Lady Darcy.”

Darcy feels all her courage oozing out of her as she is thrown back into the Awkward Conversation of Awkwardness. She keeps her eyes trained on Loki’s face, her gaze perilously close to slipping. _Gah, why is this so hard?_

“Speechless in my presence, Miss Lewis? I believe that’s a first. Should I be flattered?” The normal mockery in his tone spurs Darcy back into action.

“Yup, it’s definitely those devastating good looks. Or maybe the charming personality,” she snaps derisively. It’s too close to the truth for good sarcasm. He’s beautiful, of course – he’s always beautiful. But something about this morning reminds her of their trip to the High Line… his hair is falling into his eyes, and his smile different than usual. Closer to being genuine. _Stop being sidetracked and get on with it, Lewis. Conjectures about smiles and floppy hair will get you nowhere._

Loki, however, rather than being insulted, looks relieved that she’s back to acting like herself.

“You blush when you’re flustered,” he notes, bringing a hand up to brush her cheek.

“Huh?” is Darcy’s elegant response.

“You’re nervous.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m-”

“It wasn’t a question, Miss Lewis. And it isn’t wise to lie to me.”

“Or what?”

Loki grins and Darcy is suddenly losing her balance. She grabs onto his shoulders, but she’s going down. And if she’s gotta go down, she’s taking him with her. He flips Darcy as they fall, so that she lands on top of him, her legs on either side of his waist.

“You should see yourself,” Loki laughs.

“Oh, this means war,” Darcy growls, trailing her fingers down to his sides until he’s squirming with the urge to laugh. “You’re about to enter a world of pain, Snarkypants. Cause it looks like the God of Mischief is ticklish…”

“Miss Lewis,” he says warningly, a hint of worry in his eyes.

“Beg for mercy,” she answers, affecting the accent of a posh British villain (played by a second-rate actor). Loki tries to conceal his amusement at her accent, but it’s too late. The damage is done. Darcy can be vengeful when she wants to be, and she smiles darkly as she begins to tickle him mercilessly.

“Never,” he gets out, a bright laugh bubbling up from his lips. “Your power is a mere illusion, Miss Lew-” He isn’t able to complete that thought.

“Oh, really?” she smirks. “An illusion?” She continues her tickle attack with renewed vigour, though her triumph is short-lived, as Loki twists his hips and rolls over, turning Darcy onto her back. She backtracks immediately. “On second thought, Loki, perhaps I’ve been a little hasty. I didn’t mean t-”

“Oh no, this is _payback_ , Miss Lewis.”

Her shirt is riding up, and she gasps at the feeling of his fingertips dragging ever so slowly up and down her sides until she’s wriggling to get free. He doesn’t even ask her to beg – she cracks easily.

“No… please. Mercy! Mercy!”

Loki stops at once, though his hands stay at her hips, now gently rubbing circles.

“Now, Miss Lewis, I believe you had something to tell me.”

“Seriously? You’re thinking of that right now?”

“What else would I be thinking about?” At that precise moment, Loki drops a little closer to her, and Darcy hisses as her hips buck subconsciously against his. “Ah, yes. That might also have been on my mind,” he admits. He doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed about it.

“This is… highly improper,” Darcy splutters, all too conscious of the fact that people are watching them (and painfully aware that she sounds like some sort of Victorian governess or something).

“I do excel at that,” Loki replies, sighing. “Well, perhaps I ought to take pity on you just this once, Miss Lewis. I know what you’re here to tell me.”

“Wait, what?”

“And while it’s very generous of you to offer yourself to me,” Loki continues, a grin spreading over his face, “I was raised a prince. I am afraid that you must contain yourself, Miss Lewis. The way you throw yourself at me, it’s quite shocking.” Darcy’s mouth falls open. “Struck dumb for a second time? This is an auspicious day.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“You will, in two weeks’ time.”

“Wait, you did know! H- _how_ did you know? Oh, you… you _jerk_.” It’s not a satisfying insult in the least.

“Miss Lewis, you’ve been thinking about it since the moment you walked in.” _Well, that makes my life easier. Though how much did he hear?_ “And I assure you, I can be a _most_ generous lover.” Despite his obviously teasing tone, his voice still drops on the last word in a way that manages to be sexy when it really shouldn’t at all. _Don’t think about that, don’t think about that- oh shit, you thought about it._

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, blushing more furiously than before. “I know it’s not what you would have wanted.”

“Oh, darling, I do look forward to meeting your parents; I’m sure they’ll have enough horror stories of childrearing to keep me amused. And dear Nicholas _will_ be getting a rather upset, unexpected visitor this afternoon,” Loki adds with a smirk. “One must always keep up appearances.”

With that, Loki leaves Darcy speechless for the third time that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for taking so long to get this chapter out - I had midterms, and the muse appears to have left me, so this took way more work that it realistically should to write one chapter. I hope you like it! Kudos and comments give me life (okay, maybe not, but they're definitely an incentive to work)!  
> Happy reading, my lovelies <3


	7. There's No Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off to New Mexico, the land of the Lewis household and delicious baked goods...

Asking Fury for permission to go home is a lot like asking your dad if you can go to a party; the battle is only half-won until you’ve gotten Pepper’s approval. And Pepper, like Darcy’s mom, is a master of negotiation.

“Two weeks? That’s barely any time at all! I don’t even know what we’ll do about the floral arrangements, and there are so many invitations to be sent out… And of course I’ll need to liaise with Fury about our guests from S.H.I.E.L.D.; I think I might just limit it to the Director and Phil. And maybe Maria? She’s always nice, and she keeps Tony in check.” _I’m pretty sure you do a good enough job of that on your own, Peps._ “Who do you think wouldn’t be petrified of sitting near Fury?”

“Oh, I dunno… Clint, probably?” Pepper nods, making a note on her clipboard. “Put him beside Tasha, and- wait, does this mean I can go?”

Pepper lets out the sigh of a long-suffering CEO reduced to making wedding plans for the least cooperative bride on the planet.

(Darcy thinks she secretly enjoys getting to plan the event – if Tony would just _marry_ her already…)

“I do have a couple caveats.”

“Go on,” Darcy says, bracing herself.

“You need to stay out of the spotlight while in Middle-of-Nowhere, New Mexico.” It’s a pretty fair evaluation of Puente Antiguo, so Darcy doesn’t contest it. “And I expect you to go to whatever press junkets I arrange for you next week.”

“Fair enough.”

“ _Whatever_ press events. I’ll see if there’s a spot on Fallon – oh, and we’ll need an official interview about the wedding details, of course.” Darcy is about to speak, but Pepper isn’t done with her demands. “Katie Couric might be available. And Darcy, you need to get Loki to _smile_. Maybe crack a couple jokes. He needs to do _something_ other than terrify the interviewers.”

“Will do,” Darcy replies, trying not to think about _how_ she’s going to manage that. The problem isn’t that Loki is uncomfortable doing interviews; it’s that he’s _too_ comfortable. Comfortable to the point that he’s just sitting back and toying with whatever poor person was roped into asking him questions.

It’s hard enough getting a straight answer from him most of the time, but when you only know him as the psycho who attempted world domination, it’s hard not to take everything he says literally.

\--

Darcy can still remember watching some of their first interview footage.

 _Interviewer: [nervously] So, you’re preparing to be King of Jotunheim…_  
Loki: For the moment.  
Darcy: [chokes on coffee]  
Interviewer: [blank smile]  
Loki: [smirks slowly]  
Interviewer: [momentarily enters vegetative state, still half-smiling]

Tony had insisted on making everyone watch the full uncut interview. Clint had glared forward the whole time, while Bruce had left the room early on, before the second-hand embarrassment got to him. Stark’s running commentary hadn’t helped.

 _Tony: Wow, Loki that was_ cold _. A really_ icy _introduction._  
Steve: [slaps his knee; proceeds to look guilty about it]  
Pepper: [slaps Tony]  
Darcy: [face-palms]

(Needless to say, that part of the show got cut. In fact, Darcy isn’t sure how much usable footage there was to begin with.)

\--

“Oh, and Darce?” Darcy looks back at Pepper, whose face has gone serious. _Loki, now would be a great time to show up. Preferably before she makes me sign my soul away._ “You also need to start wearing the engagement ring.” _Oh. Shit._ “I’ve let that slide so far, but that was when we weren’t doing major press. People will be suspicious enough with the announcement of the wedding being held in two weeks – Jesus, Fury’s barely given us any time to plan, those S.H.I.E.L.D. assholes will be getting a call from me later – and… trust me, your mother would want to see it.”

At that moment, Loki appears beside Darcy, steadying her with a hand at her waist when she predictably stumbles backward.

“Ms. Potts,” he says smoothly, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Miss Lewis.”

“Loki.” Pepper isn’t flustered in the slightest. She’s one of the only people Darcy knows that isn’t put off-balance by Loki’s habitual interruptions. _Then again, she lives with Tony. You probably get used to surprises._

“You showed up?” Darcy whispers.

“I had to remedy a certain outstanding problem before we left,” he answers. “You need only ever call for me, Miss Lewis.” He smoothly slips something into her open palm, so suddenly that Darcy barely notices the chill of the metal against her skin. “Now, Ms. Potts: that’s everything settled.”

“What are you-” Darcy needs a moment to register the engagement ring in her hand. “Oh… _Oh._ ” ‘You need only ever call for me’? It’s almost romantic. ‘ _Almost’ romantic, my ass, Lewis. What more do you want? Rose petals and fireworks?_ “Thanks?” she offers lamely, slipping the ring onto her finger. _A perfect fit._ After observing firsthand Loki’s ability to whip up fitted leather jackets out of thin air, Darcy shouldn’t be surprised.

“Well, I suppose I can’t keep you here, can I?” Pepper takes a step closer to Darcy, reaching for her hand. “It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, sizing up the ring. “Emeralds and amethysts… a good choice; a faithful love, a clear mind.”

‘ _Purple is my favourite colour_ ’ is Darcy’s only coherent thought. She looks down at the ring, diamonds and emeralds interspersed among the thin strands of white gold that overlap like branches, clasping a single perfect amethyst. It’s gorgeous, and perfectly her, and she tries to think of an appropriate reaction, but draws a total blank. It’s hard enough organizing her thoughts at the best of times, but with Loki right beside her, all rational brain processes fly out the window. She needs air, space… something.

An _absence_ of Loki, if only for a couple moments.

\--

“It wasn’t supposed to be this confusing,” Darcy complains as she packs. Jane is lying across her bed, hugging a pillow while Tasha helps match socks.

“I think he’s being sweet,” Jane suggests, tugging on Darcy’s hand to inspect the ring more closely. She fawns over the perfect choices of purple and green and then launches into a long story about how the Greeks believed amethysts to have protective properties, “the word ‘amethyst’ stemming from the Greek ‘amesthustos,’ meaning ‘not drunk.’”

Darcy doesn’t even have the energy to ask when Jane had the time to research this shit.

“Can I have my hand back?” she grumbles finally, pulling her arm back so that she can return to packing (see: stuffing) her clothes into a small suitcase. Tasha immediately hurries over to refold the T-shirts, shaking her head at the inefficiency running rampant. _She could probably hide an evening dress and two grenades in here._ Darcy steps away, letting Tasha take control of the situation. “And Loki isn’t sweet. It’s not like him.”

“Or maybe you’re just saying that so you don’t have to think about the implications of that ring,” Jane fires back, tossing the pillow at Darcy.

“Implications?” Darcy asks, her voice muffled by the white cushion hitting her face. _Catlike reflexes, Lewis._

“Darce, really. You’re being dense.”

“Those emeralds are Loki’s trademark colour,” Natasha agrees, zipping the suitcase shut. “You may not place much stock in gemstones, but he’s obviously laying a claim on you, however subtly.”

“Bit late for anyone _else_ to step up to the plate,” Darcy quips.

“I’m impressed that he didn’t just present her with a pair of golden horns and have done with it,” Jane snorts, rolling onto her stomach. “Oh don’t look at me like that, Darce. You know he’s possessive.”

“It’s not like we weren’t already engaged.”

“Unwillingly, though,” Natasha argues. “This is him demonstrating that he might be so opposed to the idea. And don’t even get me started on that incident in the gym.”

“What incident?” Jane asks, sitting up.

“There was no incident,” Darcy splutters. “Tasha-”

“She was tickling him,” Tasha stage whispers. “And I don’t even want to get into the amount of bodily contact there was…”

“PG-13?” Jane enquires hopefully.

“At a minimum.”

“Oh what do  you know?” Darcy snaps grouchily. “You were busy watching Clint bench press.”

“Multi-tasking, Agent. It’s one of my many skills.”

\--

Darcy heaves her suitcase into the centre of the living room and grudgingly takes Loki’s hand. Pepper had agreed that since the goal was to get _away_ from the press, Loki was allowed to magick them around however he wanted today. He looks excited at the prospect.

“Please just act normal for once, okay?”

“Of course, Miss Lewis,” Loki grins, golden runes already wrapping around them. Darcy blinks and finds herself standing on the welcome mat outside her old house.

“See? This is exactly what I was afraid of.”

“You need to loosen up, darling,” he replies, reaching out to press the doorbell.

She hates when he calls her that – ‘darling’ is for the cameras, a term he uses because he can’t very well refer to her as ‘Miss Lewis’ when they’re supposed to be happily infatuated with each other… and Loki still can’t bring himself to call her by her first name.

“Darcy!” The screen door swings open, and Darcy is wrapped up in her mother’s arms. She smells like cinnamon and vanilla and _home_ , and Darcy hugs her back, hard. “Welcome home, sweetie.”

“Hey, Mom,” Darcy mutters in embarrassment, stepping back.

“And you must be Loki,” Mrs. Lewis says cheerily, looking at the tall man standing behind her daughter. He cuts an imposing figure, but when Loki smiles at her it looks almost… friendly.

“Mrs. Lewis. We meet at last.”

Loki holds out a hand, but Darcy’s mother has never been one for formality.

“Oh, I think we can skip the handshakes, honey.” Darcy revels in the uncomfortable look on Loki’s face as her mother pulls him in for a hug. “Al! It’s time to meet your daughter’s fiancé,” Mrs. Lewis shouts over her shoulder. “Come on inside; I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

Darcy resists every urge to hide her face... she wonders whether Loki would be willing to make her invisible for a little while. Loki, however, merely wraps an arm around her waist and nudges her into the house.

“Your mother is very…”

“Over-bearing?” Darcy supplies.

“Kind,” Loki finishes. “I wonder how all that was lost on you,” he adds with a laugh.

“Oh shut your face, Snarkypants,” Darcy answers, kicking off her boots. “You like me snarky; it’s what keeps you in check.”

Loki doesn’t disagree, instead unlacing his own shoes and elegantly following her into the living room. He manages to look good even while walking around in his socky feet. _Not fair._ Darcy hops onto the red loveseat, tucking her feet under her. Loki joins her a moment later.

“A word to the wise,” Darcy whispers into his ear as Mrs. Lewis hands him a steaming cup of coffee. “Avoid drinking that if you can. My mother has many culinary talents, but brewing coffee is not one of them.”

“You forget, Miss Lewis, that I have magic at my disposal. A peppermint mocha for you?”

“I could get used to this… my own personal Starbucks barista,” Darcy grins, taking a deep sip from her mug. _Yay! I love the taste of not-dishwater._ “Thanks, man.”

Loki takes a gulp of his own drink and promptly begins to cough.

“I _told_ you not to,” Darcy chastises him softly as her parents walk in, carrying trays of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

“You do have a propensity for exaggeration, Miss Lewis. Forgive me. I will be more amenable to your suggestions in future.”

“Damn right you will. Now, your queen commands you to eat a chocolate chip cookie.” Loki blinks at her. “Seriously, dude, they’re delicious. They taste like… revenge, only sweeter.”

Loki rolls his eyes.

“If you insist…”

(She does.)

Loki eats a dozen cookies over the course of the next couple hours. Darcy doesn’t comment, asides from carefully wiping away a smudge of chocolate from his upper lip. It’s good to be home.

\--

_Hey boy, take me away, into the night  
Out of the hum of the street lights and into a forest_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That wasn't too bad, was it? Sorry it wasn't longer - I gotta run off to an awards ceremony tonight, and I didn't want to leave you guys hanging. Reviews/kudos give me life <3


	8. Excessively Diverting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Lewis makes a Dad joke, Mrs. Lewis forces the whole family to marathon Pride & Prejudice, and Darcy and Loki... let off some steam.

“Darce? We’re having an early dinner tonight,” Mrs. Lewis says, carrying the last of the dirty dishes into the kitchen. “The BBC is playing the entire Pride & Prejudice miniseries… the one with Colin Firth,” she whispers conspiratorially. “For the anniversary of its final air date.”

“Really?” Darcy rinses a ceramic mug and sets it upside down onto the drying rack. “The show is, like, 6 hours long.”

“Oh, you really don’t need to do that,” her mother mutters, grabbing a dish towel. “And today is a special occasion, honey.”

“Mom, I want to help.”

“You’re here, with us. That’s more than enough. Now, shoo!” Mrs. Lewis leans over and shuts the water off. “Let’s get your things up to your room, and you and Loki can get settled.”

“I’ll handle it, Miss Lewis,” a familiar smooth baritone says. Darcy still isn’t used to Loki’s weird telepathic interruptions, and she almost jumps at the intrusion. _Um, thanks, honey bunch_. “Call me that again and I _will_ rescind my offer,” the voice growls. Even when Darcy knows that he’s currently sitting in the room over, chatting with her father about La-Z-Boy’s, Loki can still be kinda intimidating. _Sorry, Big Norse God of Majesty._ “That’s better.”

“Darcy? You coming?”

Mrs. Lewis is standing in the doorway, bags in hand.

After some frankly over-the-top wheedling and insistent tugging, Darcy manages to wrest her suitcase out of her mother’s hands, arguing that she’s perfectly capable of dealing with it herself. Mrs. Lewis rolls her eyes (Darcy has a vision of Loki bonding with her over her daughter’s ‘needless stubbornness,’ as she calls it) but lets go.

Hefting her suitcase up the stairs, step by step, Darcy lets her mother’s voice wash over her, the soft sound of running water rising up from the kitchen. _Not quite sure what the rules are regarding Loki’s magic while living under a civilian roof, but, well, he’s not doing any harm, is he?_

“Where are you going, Darce?” Darcy had taken a right at the top of the staircase, rolling her suitcase toward her old bedroom. She halts at the question, turning around to face her mother. “Sweetie…” Mrs. Lewis sounds positively exasperated. “You’re staying in the guest room. This is the 21st century, I don’t expect you to be separated from your fiancé.”

_Aaand this week on ‘How to Lose Personal Space When You Just Wanted to Alienate People’… the tragic true story of Darcy Lewis. Featuring a guest appearance from none other than Loki Laufeyson, future King of Jotunheim, one-time Ruler of Earth, and all-time jackass-_

“Allow me to help you with that, darling.”

_Impeccable timing, as always._

“I’m fine, really,” Darcy says.

“Mmhmm.”

Loki shares an understanding look with Darcy’s mother before stealing her suitcase and carrying it into the room himself. _Jerk._

“I’ll leave you two to unpack,” Mrs. Lewis smiles.

“You sure you don’t need help with dinner?” Darcy asks in a last-ditch effort to avoid even more alone time with Frosty.

“Darcy, the day I let you help with dinner is the day we all go hungry.” It would seem harsh, if Darcy hadn’t managed to set off the smoke alarm the last time she tried to cook dinner in the Lewis household. Mind you, she was only nineteen at the time.

“I’ve been getting better,” Darcy grumbles.

“At making cereal, yes,” Loki smirks. “And re-heating things.” Darcy glares at him. “Very well, I will grant that your baking is delicious,” he adds – Darcy would chalk this up to Loki further ingratiating himself with her mother were it not for the fact that he ate pretty much all of her creations indiscriminately after her first successful batch of cupcakes. Her improvement is mostly thanks to the ever-vigilant JARVIS, who double-checks all her measurements before letting her anywhere near a mixing bowl, let alone the oven.

Jane always says that baking is just like chemistry.

Darcy happens to be terrible at chemistry. The promise of a yummy final product does make it slightly more satisfying, though. And being cooped up for a week gives you plenty of time for practice.

“Well, tonight I’m cooking for our guests of honour,” Mrs. Lewis laughs. “The Future Queen of A Galaxy Far, Far Away can do culinary experiments some other time. Dinner’s at five,” she reminds them as she walks back down the stairs.

Darcy lowers her suitcase onto its side, on the floor beside their (one) bed – _That can be dealt with later_ – and begins to haphazardly unpack folded T-shirts and skinny jeans, depositing them into the dresser. The drawer above hers is enveloped in golden runes for a moment. _Because why do it by hand if you don’t have to?_

Darcy rolls her eyes before reaching for her PJ’s… and freezing in shock.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

She is going to _kill_ the Black Widow, Soviet ninja skills be damned. Letting Tasha pack was the second-worst idea in the history of bad ideas (topped only by this arranged marriage business… and declaring a World War after the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand). _Okay, the third-worst idea._

“What is it?” Loki asks curiously.

“Loki, go away,” Darcy squeaks, slamming the lid shut.

He gives her a confused look before shaking his head, not deeming the matter worthy of further inspection. Taking a seat on his side of the bed, Loki leans against the headboard and conjures a book into his hands.

Meanwhile, Darcy slowly opens the suitcase again, using the top of the suitcase as a screen, protection from a certain pair of prying eyes. She peeks at the folded sleepwear, sighing resignedly. Darcy has never in her life worn something that could be labelled a ‘chemise’ (too French, and too expensive), but this is all that and more: very black, very lacy, and just this side of not transparent. _Goddammit, Tasha._

She wraps the lace confection inside a hoodie and shoves it into the dresser with a huff. _Keep things in perspective, Lewis. Just one week. You bargained with Director Nick Fury for this week. Nothing is going to ruin it for you. Not even that see-through nightie… Oh fuckity fuckballs._

Darcy turns to her collection of T-shirts in desperation, assessing them carefully, but they’re all short and tight, and even _less_ appropriate for sharing a bed. _If Jane had anything to do with this…_ She dumps the remaining contents of her suitcase into the drawer and slides it closed more forcefully than necessary.

Loki winces.

“Miss Lewis, is something wrong?”

“What book is that?” Darcy asks, ignoring the question. Her voice sounds strained, but Loki doesn’t comment. He simply smirks and flips back a few pages.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged,” Loki reads aloud. “That a single man, in possession of good fortune –” Darcy groans and face-plants onto her side of the mattress. “ – must be in want of a wife.”

When he continues, she clocks him in the face with a pillow.

\--

“So, Loki,” Mr. Lewis says over dinner. “Will you be visiting again at Thanksgiving? We’ll keep it…” He pauses for effect. “…low key.”

Darcy almost chokes on a string bean.

Mrs. Lewis doesn’t even bother feigning amusement.

“Ignore him, dear. He thinks he’s funny. But we _would_ love to see you there.”

“I believe you will be seeing me again much sooner than that,” Loki says, surreptitiously slipping a hand to the small of Darcy’s back, sending a burst of seiðr that clears her windpipe. “The marriage ceremony is in two weeks.”

The coughing fit is back.

“Darling, why don’t you have a sip of water?” Loki murmurs.

Darcy glares over the rim of her glass as he begins to talk Asgardian nuptials. To her parents’ credit, they respond much more positively to the news of the event than she had: Mrs. Lewis goes slightly teary, while Darcy’s father says something gruff about how ‘when you know, you know,’ casting a loving glance at his wife.

It doesn’t hurt that Loki graciously promises to attend their Thanksgiving celebration. He’s remarkably eager to be agreeable, gladly being pulled into the fold. Darcy feels guilty for her own crappy track record with family gatherings. With university, and then work, she’s had plenty of excuses to hide behind, and excuses which she gladly milked for all they were worth. _You’ve been slacking in the ‘caring progeny’ department, Darce._

“5:40 already?” Mrs. Lewis exclaims with a touch too much excitement. “We need to get moving!” She stands up and Darcy quickly pushes her own chair back, rushing to collect the dishes before her mother does even more work than she already has.

“I’ve got this, Mom. Go sit.”

“Darcy…”

“We’ll be just a moment,” Loki says smoothly, stacking the rest of the plates and carrying them to the kitchen. Apparently Loki’s support is the clincher, as Mrs. Lewis sighs in defeat and retreats to the living room.

\--

At 6:00, the marathon of Pride & Prejudice begins.

By 7:00, Loki is whispering commentary into Darcy’s ear – there are only three good TV-viewing spots in the living room, and her parents have already appropriated the comfy chairs, leaving Darcy on the loveseat again, beside Loki.

By 8:00, Darcy’s emotionally invested in the darn story again. She had repositioned herself sometime during the opening of the second episode and is now leaning back against Loki, using his shoulder as a pillow. He wordlessly angles his shoulder so that her head is at a better tilt.

9:00. Fitzwilliam Darcy has declared his ardent admiration and love for Elizabeth Bennet. Mrs. Lewis cries. Darcy may or may not also cry just a little bit.

10:00. A new bottle of wine is cracked open, and Darcy is reminded why she loves the mini-series so much (see: a sopping wet Colin Firth). Loki places an arm around her, his hand resting lightly on her hip. It’s comfy, so Darcy doesn’t comment.

11:00. Commercial break. Darcy’s parents bow out, claiming that they’re too sleepy. _As if I don’t know what you’re up to._ Darcy follows her mother into the kitchen under the pretence of getting a glass of water.

“Mom, I know what you’re doing,” she whispers.

“Are you complaining?” Well, Darcy can’t exactly say ‘no.’ “Honey, I’ve seen the way you two look at each other.” _Like two people who don’t want to get married to each other?_ “Constantly dancing around each other, casting sidelong glances…” There’s a wistful look on her face. _Pride & Prejudice is getting to her… or maybe I should confiscate her wine._

“You’re thinking about the wrong Darcy, clearly.”

Mrs. Lewis shakes her head.

“Your wedding is in two weeks; it wouldn’t be uncalled for to enjoy yourself a little, hon. I was young once, too, you know. Back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth.” Darcy rolls her eyes. “Give the guy a break,” her mother says softly. “You don’t need to keep him at an arm’s length for our sakes. Loki cares about you, sweetie. Anyone can see it.” _Anyone can see what he wants them to see. God of Lies, Mom._ “Goodnight, Darcy.”

“G’night.”

\--

“They’ve gone to bed. You don’t have to stay up if you don’t want to,” Darcy offers as she settles back onto the loveseat.

“I believe we long passed the point of no return,” Loki replies. “Why? Tired, darling?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. _Of course he sounds as awake as ever. Do gods even need sleep? Ever?_

“No!” Darcy rears up indignantly. If he’s making this a competition, she refuses to lose to him. “I just meant that you don’t _have_ to keep watching…”

“No turning back now, Miss Lewis,” Loki grins, pulling her closer.

“Oh, just admit that you’re enjoying yourself,” she grumbles, nuzzling against his chest.

“Perhaps I could be persuaded…”

Darcy rolls her eyes but doesn’t move away. He’s so warm, and solid, and he smells really, _really_ good. Like, ‘bottle that up and sell it’ levels of good.

The credits roll as the clock strikes midnight.

Darcy has wormed her way onto Loki’s lap now – she prays that Norse Gods are immune to having their legs fall asleep – and her head is nestled under his chin, her wineglass (now empty) cradled in her hands.

“I should probably hit the sack,” she mumbles. Loki’s hands are at her waist, keeping her balanced, but he loosens his grip when she pushes against his chest and lets her feet slip onto the carpet.

Loki follows her up the stairs, managing to avoid every single creaky step. The moment they reach the bedroom, Darcy darts to the dresser to grab the dratted nightgown, her feet sliding on the hardwood floor. She keeps it balled up in her hands as she slips into the adjoining bathroom and closes the door behind her.

Muttering words of encouragement to her reflection, Darcy tugs on the lacy monstrosity. The deep V-neck leaves very little to the imagination, and she gives up on trying to readjust herself after a certain point. _If he thinks I’m trying to seduce him, well, he’s just got another thing coming._ She straightens out the waistband of her boy shorts – how fitting that they’re frickin’ _forest green_ – and stops herself from taking another glance at her reflection. One more look and she might just keep holed up in this bathroom for the night.

She shuts off the light before clicking the lock open. _Hey, maybe Loki has already fallen asleep! Maybe- Never mind._ She silently curses at the lamps (still on, illuminating the entire bedroom). She curses less silently when she stubs her toe on the dresser.

Any chance of going unnoticed flies out the window.

Loki is sitting on the edge of the bed, already changed into pyjama pants (and no shirt, because he lacks the decency to at least _pretend_ he has a shred of modesty), and he looks up at the moment of impact.

“Miss Lew-”

He visibly gulps.

“Not one word,” Darcy says grumpily, keeping her arms crossed in an attempt to look dignified as she hobbles over to the bed. It doesn’t work, shockingly enough.

“Do you need help?” he asks, rising to his feet.

“Nope.”

Loki walks forward anyway.

Darcy’s cheeks are blazing hot, and they grow even more so when she catches Loki taking her all in, his eyes going dark... promising _beautiful, wonderful things_. She bites her lip at the thought of- _No. Bad Darcy._ But she can’t make herself un-see it. Loki’s lips trailing down her neck, slipping thin black straps off her shoulders, hands brushing over bare skin, caressing…

“You were on my side of the bed,” Darcy says, clearing her throat. _Wow. Seductive. Tasha needn’t have bothered with the outfit._

“Pardon?”

“Move.”

Loki raises an eyebrow.

“Make me.”

“Loki Laufeyson, with God as my witness…”

“Wrong God, Miss Lewis.”

He’s right in front of her now.

“Oh come on, you know that isn’t fair,” she complains. Loki’s tall and muscled and _did she mention tall_ , while Darcy is shivering in a too-thin lace nightgown. _What happened to a level playing field?_

“I play to my strengths,” he says, his lips curling.

“Why do you insist on being such a- an ass?”

“Maybe I like making you flustered.”

Fire trucks have nothing on the colour of her face right now.

“Maybe I couldn’t care less-”

“Norns above, this is ridiculous,” Loki growls, and as though her body already knows what’s going to happen, Darcy lifts her chin and her lips meet his in a hard, assertive kiss. _Apparently six hours of Regency-era frustration was a tipping point- Oh. Oh that feels really…_ Darcy’s eyes shut as Loki’s tongue darts between her lips, and she returns the favour, gasping at the feeling of his hands landing at her waist and tugging her closer. They stagger backward – Darcy on her tiptoes, Loki bent forward awkwardly to accommodate for his height – and the mattress bounces as Loki carefully lowers them onto the bed. And then he’s back to kissing her, assured hands sliding upward and cupping her breasts over the lace. Darcy nips at his bottom lip and he moans and _Goddammit if it isn’t the hottest sound on Earth_.

_Scratch that, in the universe._

Giving her heartbeat a moment to slow, Darcy pulls back ever so slightly.

“So, do I win?” she asks unsteadily, bringing her hands down to Loki’s shoulders. Her fingers delicately map every inch of his skin within reach, tracing over the ridge of his collarbones and sliding down to grip onto his arms.

“I assure you, Miss Lewis,” Loki breathes out. “It’s currently the furthest thing from my mind.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that was alright... as I said, I'm working up to the ~~sexytimes~~ and holy crap writing this stuff is so hard. My apologies for the slow updates - I should probably just give you guys a head's up that next week is gonna be a really busy one for me, what with midterms and essays and all, so I can't make any promises.  
> I hope this tides you over!
> 
> Much love, darlings; remember, kudos and comments put a smile on my face (◕‿◕✿)


	9. Whoops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two mistakes. One better than the other.  
> Warning that the fluff is toning down a little bit.

“Good morning, darling.”

Darcy’s hairbrush is currently trapped in the rat’s nest on top of her head, and she glares at Loki as he casually leans against the doorframe of the bathroom.

“Go ’way,” she says sullenly, wincing when she tugs at the brush’s handle. _Why does he always have to catch me when I’m doing something stupid?_ “I have everything under control.”

She doesn’t actually, and some of his glow-y magic would seriously come in handy right about now, but she’s not about to admit that she might need him.

“You need only ask nicely,” Loki murmurs.

Darcy stays obstinately silent, but Loki straightens his back and walks into the bathroom anyway, placing his hands on her shoulders. His seiðr shines around them for a moment and the hairbrush clatters to the tiled floor.

“Thanks,” Darcy says loudly, trying to ignore how Loki is edging ever closer, his lips just barely brushing the shell of her ear. He looks gorgeous, even this soon after waking up. _Not that you should be surprised at this point, Lewis._ His inky black hair has been getting a little longer, and it curls against his collarbones when he inclines his head and begins pressing feather-light kisses along her neck. Loki’s hands, meanwhile, are sliding down her arms, fingertips leaving electricity in their wake.

Darcy leans back against him, long enough to feel his hips rock against hers and send a new wave of heat coursing through her – before Loki pulls away abruptly.

The loss of his touch is maddening, and he _knows_ it. _Goddammit, Mischief._

Loki has the gall to chuckle – _chuckle!_ – to himself as he shifts his attention elsewhere, fingers gliding down the swell of Darcy’s hips, along the tops of her thighs, and then back up again, mindlessly tracing patterns through the lace.

“We should- we should go down for breakfast,” Darcy bites out, trying not to sound breathy… as if she could hide how much she is affected by the smallest of his touches. Loki wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. “My mom will be wondering…”

“Your parents are out,” Loki whispers, his lips barely leaving her skin.

It shouldn’t change anything.

Darcy waits for her stomach to grumble and remind her that this is a very, very bad idea, that ‘eating a balanced breakfast is the best way to start the day.’ _Anything._

But her survival instinct and her desire already seem to have come to an understanding. Desire won.

“Oh,” Darcy says.

Loki nips at her pulse point and she lets out a sound that can only be described as a moan. _Oh, Lewis, you’ve got it bad. Where is your chill?_

Darcy isn’t sure where her chill went. She thinks she lost it. Or more accurately, it went flying out the window the moment Loki’s right hand began to slip under the hem of her lace negligee, grazing her stomach and making her core clench.

Now he’s moving lower, fingers curling to cup her over the fabric of her damp boxer briefs, though his hand keeps infuriatingly still. Her pulse flutters as Loki nips gently at the strip of skin where her neck meets her shoulder.

“Is this alright?” Loki asks, moving his index finger ever so slightly, and a shock arcs through her. Darcy nods her assent, grabbing onto the sides of the sink and blushing when she catches sight of her reflection. God, he’s barely done anything to her and she looks _wrecked_. Her eyes are practically feverish, her cheeks blotchy, and there’s already a bright red mark glowing against the pale skin of her neck.

If she were less preoccupied, Darcy might be exasperated with him.

“A hickey? Really?” She arches her back anyway. “Concealer doesn’t grown on trees, y’know-”

“ _Mine_ ,” Loki growls, pressing insistent lips against the spot on her neck, making her go all wobbly-kneed. And then he begins stroking her in earnest, talented fingers working her through the fabric until every atom of her body is focused on the little bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. She can feel that familiar tightening already, anticipation as she nears the precipice.

She half-expects him to stop right before she’s gotten her satisfaction, just to play a trick.

“No tricks,” Loki says softly. “Come, my sweetling.”

And Darcy lets go.

She bites down on her lip hard to stop herself from saying his name as she comes (embarrassingly quickly, with a muffled ‘hyeurgh’ that is distinctly un-sexy), but her unsteady legs and flushed face are worship enough.

Loki grins, his arm tightening around her waist to keep her upright.

“So. Breakfast?”

\--

In under three minutes, Loki has already surpassed what meagre experiences Darcy has had in the past. She nearly hates him for it: the deserved confidence he possesses, the way he can effortlessly hide – or manufacture – desire. That second part is what really scares her. _He just got you off, Lewis. Why are you over-thinking it?_

But as Darcy pours milk into her Cheerios, she can’t help wondering if this is a game for him. It’s not like Loki has anything to lose.

_‘No tricks,’ he said. So the question is, do you trust him enough to believe that?_

She can feel herself losing her appetite, and she ends up dumping the rest of her cereal in the garbage. Loki walks in as she’s setting her dishes on the drying rack.

“You need to get dressed,” he observes, though he doesn’t complain as his eyes rake over the damn lace nightie – it’s surprisingly comfortable, and Darcy had forgotten she was wearing it.

She clears her throat.

“I thought you liked the view.”

“Of course,” Loki smirks. “But my mother is coming for lunch.”

“What?” He’s already leaving the room, whistling to himself. “Do my _parents know about this_?” Darcy squeaks, already feeling her stomach twist into knots. _Your chill, Lewis. Go find it._

“They’ll be coming home right about… now,” Loki laughs, his voice echoing in the stairwell. The front door clicks open right on cue, and Darcy scrambles out of the kitchen and up the stairs before she has to face her mother.

“Bastard,” she grumbles as she rummages through her array of T-shirts and jeans to find something appropriate for a meeting with Frigga – it’s a fun task, considering she hasn’t packed anything remotely fitting for tea with a monarch.

The red sweater and black pants she settles on don’t sit well with Loki, who appears as she’s tugging on a pair of striped socks. He doesn’t say anything, but his lips are thinning into a tense line.

“What?” Darcy snaps after thirty seconds of enduring his silent disapproval.

“It’s… red.”

“And?”

“Red is Thor’s colour,” Loki mutters.

Darcy throws up her hands in exasperation.

“Typical! First of all, I’m pretty sure the entire _universe_ knows who I’m marrying. And secondly, I refuse to be involved in one of your little pissing contests with your brother.”

Loki rolls his eyes and walks back out the door right before Darcy’s mother calls them down for lunch. When Darcy looks down at her sweater, it’s turned a deep forest green.

_Again?_

\--

When Darcy walks into the dining room, her parents are already chit-chatting with Frigga like it’s no big deal. Well, her mother has an ironclad grip on her teacup, and her father has already decimated half of the cookie platter, but asides from that, things seem to be going smoothly. Darcy bites her lips and worries the ring on her finger.

Frigga gracefully rises to her feet, gold dress fluttering around her.

“Darcy. So good to see you again.”

There’s an awkward pause where Darcy contemplates shaking her hand… _or maybe curtsying?_ But Frigga laughs and pulls Darcy in for a hug.

“Queen Frigga-” Mrs. Lewis pauses at the look Frigga gives her and corrects herself. “ _Frigga_ was just telling us about the traditional marriage rituals on Asgard.”

“Oh. Fascinating.”

 _Great work, Lewis. You’re really making a superb impression._ She wonders if it’s possible to use ‘possession by a past 14-year-old self' as an excuse. _Maybe it’s a classic stress response._

Queen Frigga ‘Just Call Me Frigga’ seems completely at ease and begins to explain hand-fasting… brushing over, of course, the creepy-ass _blood bond_ or whatever that the contract had mentioned. Darcy waits for her to conjure an Asgardian scrapbook full of fabric samples or something. She can already imagine her mother poring over it eagerly. There have been wedding magazines none too subtly set out on the coffee table. Darcy has pointedly refused to even open one.

The topic of the wedding manages to take up the entirety of the conversation, and Darcy keeps herself to short interjections of interest.

She tries to tamp down her growing anxiety as her father carries out steaming plates of roast beef and mashed potatoes. _This is gonna be one hell of a meal. We haven’t even started and I want to leave._ Darcy knows that unless she keeps her mouth shut, a steady stream of word vomit is going to come spewing out at any minute. She gulps her scalding hot tea and tightens her grip on Loki’s fingers before withdrawing her hands and picking up her cutlery.

Frigga doesn’t seem at all surprised or put-off by Darcy’s apparent standoffishness, and she continues to smile and speak with the Lewis’, ever the picture of diplomacy. Darcy’s father has managed to sneak a Norse mythology book into the dining room, and nine minutes in, he flips it open and starts playing ‘True or False’: Gods of Asgard edition. (Only available in select locations. Buy now, while supplies last.)

Darcy’s grateful, at least, that he didn’t bring up Sleipnir and that whole business. The moment everyone has finished eating, she jumps to her feet and offers to do the dishes. Loki wordlessly stands up with her and follows her to the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, once the water is running and they’re out of earshot.

“What? Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s just dandy. Just perfect. Fantastic, in fact.” She doesn’t sound at all hysterical. Really, she doesn’t. _I mean, there’s just a space queen future mother-in-law sitting in the room over, no biggie._

“Miss Lewis,” Loki whispers. “You’re babbling.”

“Look, the whole marriage thing is just… it hadn’t sunk in before. And now… Do you realize that Jotunheim hasn’t even come up _once_ in this entire conversation? This wedding sounds lovely, but the ceremony isn’t really Asgardian, is it?”

Her voice has gotten louder, and she hears the sound of glasses clinking in the dining room. The sound has never seemed so deafening. Loki flashes her a confused look, and his eyes seem to fill with some unspoken hurt.

_Don’t make a scene, Lewis._

“This about diplomacy with _Jotunheim_ , right? What does it say if the future rulers can’t even stand to get hitched in the realm they’re supposed to represent?”

_Whoop. You made a scene._

“What do you want, Darcy?” Loki hisses.

“Darcy?” she asks softly.

His back stiffens as he realizes his mistake.

“What do you want?” he repeats.

 _I want this to work out. I want us to be_ good _at this, ‘cause I know we could be if you would just let go of this stupid self-loathing. I want you to stop being so full of_ hate. _God, I just want you to be_ normal _for once. I want to be_ able _to love you._

Loki steps back suddenly, and Darcy realizes her mistake.

“N-no.” Her eyes widen at the shock on Loki’s face. “That was _private_. You shouldn’t have-”

“Very well, darling.” He forces a smile, and she knows something is wrong, because she can _tell_ he’s forcing it. “I believe it’s time for dessert.”

“Are you ever coming back from in there?” Mrs. Lewis jokes, peeking into the kitchen.

Darcy keeps her back to the doorway as she fills a kettle with water.

“Yes,” she says quickly. “Just putting on some tea.”

Loki places a peck on her cheek before leaving the room – but there’s no feeling in it. She waits until they’ve both left the room before letting the tears come.

Sometimes her thoughts aren’t entirely truthful, either.

_I just want you._

\--

_See, things cannot be reversed,  
we learn from the times that we are cursed_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about taking so long to update - I'll try to get some more of this fic done in the coming weeks (lectures are finally over!!!). I'm not sure if I'm happy with this chapter, so... let me know what you guys think, I guess? Much love to everyone who's stuck around with this story. Love you lots <3 <3 <3


	10. Lower Than Deep

Darcy’s hands shake ever so slightly as she pours still steaming Earl Grey into cups, and she hisses when the hot water splashes up at her. The waterworks may have been tamped down, but her hands are still shaky, and she’s certain that her face is red and blotchy, just barely on the ‘Post’ side of Post-Emotional Upheaval.

 _Pull yourself together, woman._ _So what if Jerky Jerkeysson is back to playing cold and aloof?_ _So what if you happen to maybe be a little in love with him? No big deal, right?_

(Darcy has never been very good at consoling herself.)

In the room over, Mrs. Lewis titters at something Frigga is saying, and Loki mutters some snide remark, that slightly rough baritone dripping with obvious condescension. It’s not like him to sound so cruel – not that he doesn’t have to capacity to _be_ cruel, but he’s not usually so transparent about it. And his anger, warranted or not, is certainly misdirected.

Then again, Darcy has her own brand of cruelty. ‘I want to be able to love you’? Yeah, for future reference: not exactly choice words for someone already incapable of believing he’s worthy of being loved. _Loki just… tuned in at the wrong moment_ , she argues to herself. But some vindictive part of her had _wanted_ him to hear it. _Well, we’re certainly well-matched. Thoughtless and heartless make a perfect combo._

The problem is, she doesn’t know who is which at this point.

It is at the precise moment that this thought crosses her mind, that the universe – obviously not content with subjecting Darcy to a _single_ round of shittiness – works against her for a second time. A series of uncoordinated movements involving a cup of hot tea result in a practical demonstration of gravitational forces at play.

Time is supposed to slow down when an accident happens. But it feels a lot more like everything happens all at once: the stupid porcelain cup is slipping through Darcy’s fingers and she hears a sharp reprimand of ‘ _Loki_ ’ in the dining room, her mother making a surprised sound right as Darcy takes in the sudden flash of golden runes and then the cup is landing safely in Loki’s palm.

“Do be more careful, darling,” the god says acidly, his breath hot in her face.

Darcy takes in those green eyes glittering with hurt – or maybe it’s malice… it’s always so hard to tell with him – and considers any latent hopes of declaring her love and falling straight into his arms officially dashed. The sheen of his seiðr hangs in the air, and Darcy stupidly tries to think of what to tell her mother about her fiancé. _‘Oh yeah, he can also teleport. No biggie. Just thought you should know.’_

“Look, I’m sor-”

Darcy thinks she sees Loki flinch at the ‘sorry,’ and she halts. M _ight be wiser to shut up at this point, Agent._ Biting her lip, she waits for a ‘Spare me your pity, foolish mortal’ moment or some other such reminder that the Big Bad Beowulf doesn’t need her compassion or her… what would he call it? Her _sentiment_.

“We should return to the dining room,” Loki rejoins sharply, an edge in his voice. “The tea will get cold.”

The tea is virtually scalding.

\--

“So, Darcy,” Frigga smiles as Darcy sits back down. “We were discussing the hand-fasting ceremony.”

Now, to be fair, it isn’t exactly a question. And that fact has to at least somewhat excuse the train-wreck of grammar and syntax that proceeds to spill out of Darcy’s mouth. She isn’t even sure what she’s saying; it’s more like a steady flow of random words intermixed with a heck of a lot of filler words.

 _God, do you hear yourself, Lewis? I think you’ve said ‘fascinating’ about seven times… and is that even how you pronounce ‘Jötunn’?_ Darcy really wishes that she could be eloquent and well-spoken 24/7 but, well, she isn’t, and her thoughts are all scrambled right now.

 _Some queen you’ll make_ , her asshole of a conscience lectures her. _One spat with Leather & Metal over there and you’re an inarticulate blob._

“Mother, at least hold the wedding planning off until we’ve finished eating,” Loki interrupts, thankfully taking some mercy on Darcy. Frigga assesses him shrewdly, but that diplomatic smile remains fixed on her face.

“Of course. Do excuse me, Darcy. I’m getting ahead of myself,” she says warmly, casting an amused glance at Loki. Darcy turns pink and mumbles something about there being no need to apologize, meanwhile wondering how one person can exude so much motherly love. To prevent further waffling, Darcy takes a quick gulp of tea (another bad idea, it turns out). She winces as it burns a path down her throat. _‘The tea will get cold’ my ass._

\--

Her mother collects the dishes once everyone has finished, hushing Darcy’s offer to help.

“No, no. You need to get planning,” Mrs. Lewis says, her cheery tone brooking no argument. Mr. Lewis rises to his feet, and so Darcy finds herself abandoned by both parental units as her future mother-in-law begins to explain Jötunn politics.

“There are twelve members of Jotunheim’s Grand Council. They act as advisors to their king and queen, but be warned: not everyone looks fondly on the realm’s soon-to-be leader.” Frigga says this with a slight tilt of the head at Loki, who is staying noticeably silent. “Many say that the king regent is better fit for the role. Luckily Bergelmir himself is a firm supporter of having Laufey’s true heir on the throne.”

“What about the fact that Loki happened to, well, kill Laufey?” Darcy asks curiously.

“He was… not a good leader, Darcy. There is a tradition of removing bad leaders from positions where they do more ill than good.” _Yikes. That’s not foreboding in the least._ “You have no need to worry,” Frigga adds, clearly picking up on Darcy’s unsaid worry. “Jotunheim’s ties with the other realms are too fragile right now. A coup would be poorly received by all.”

“Not to be narcissistic or anything, but where do _I_ factor into all this?”

“There’s no harm in wanting to know. And rest assured, you’ve made a good first impression,” Frigga smiles. “We might not gossip as openly as your writers on Midgard are wont to do, but we have our methods. And news of your kindness is spreading. Your openness toward Bergelmir has certainly helped.”

Darcy thinks back to the gentle Frost Giant she met at the engagement announcement. He had a Victorian-gentleman sort of air about him – it feels a mite condescending to hear him spoken about like some kind of pity case. _He may well be a better fit than Loki_. It’s a dangerous thought, one that Darcy quashes immediately. _That would be your bitterness talking, Lewis._

“Bergelmir is well-spoken, and a smart politician,” she says defensively.

“I agree, but many are too prejudiced to see that, Darcy.”

“Oh.”

“Progress is not always quick to come, but change _is_ brewing. A good change.” Darcy wishes she could be so hopeful. Centuries of institutionalized hate and discrimination on Earth seem to disagree. But a century… a century means nothing to these people. “The people’s confidence in Loki _is_ growing,” Frigga assures her. “They say that you temper him.” Loki coughs loudly, and Darcy elbows him in the ribs. “Gaining trust and respect for the Jötunn will take more time.”

“Have any attempts been made to reach out to them in the past?”

“The Frost Giants aren’t the best at cultivating friendship.” It’s the first time Loki has spoken since Frigga brought up the topic of Jotunheim, and his voice is strained.

“Sounds like someone I know,” Darcy mutters.

Loki sends her a withering look, and Darcy can’t quite contain a smirk. Frigga firmly redirects the conversation to the topic of etiquette and Jötunn customs.

“How exotic,” Loki remarks. He (just barely) dodges Darcy’s elbow this time.

\--

At dinner that night, Mr. Lewis has his nose buried in a book of Norse mythology while Mrs. Lewis sighs every now and then, cutting her broccoli into tiny pieces and looking at her husband with a mixture of affection and mild concern. Darcy envies them their easy domesticity. She would never describe her parents’ love as turbulent… it’s the steadier, ‘still waters run deep’ type of love, whereas everything with Loki – if it can be called ‘love’ – is always so much, all at once. One moment, he’s cold, and then a switch goes off and he’s kissing her and touching her and it’s absolutely fucking _devastating_.

Darcy squeezes her thighs together uncomfortably, realizing that this train of thought is only headed in one direction. And she is _so_ not going there. Especially right now.

God, but now her brain is going into overdrive with the smallest flashes of memories – a hint of a touch at the swell of her hips, a hand sliding across the softness of her stomach.

_No. Stop it, Brain._

She’s turning pink, she’s sure of it.

Loki leans toward her and it’s enough to jolt Darcy back into the present. His lips brush against her cheek, under the pretence of whispering some sweet nothing to her, she supposes. It hurts, to realize how they must look: the picture of pre-marital bliss. She tenses, trying to ignore her suddenly racing heart.

“Imagine it’s someone else if you must,” Loki murmurs roughly. “But your mother is getting suspicious.” _How- Oh, right. Mind-reading. The logical explanation._

“Imagine?” Darcy echoes.

“Darling, please.” She hates that her heart flutters at the pet name, and she quickly clenches her fists, her purple-lacquered nails biting into the skin. “Relax,” His Princely-ness orders Darcy softly. He runs a hand soothingly between her shoulder blades, and it almost helps. But then she remembers that this is all play-acting, and she can’t do it.

“You aren’t very good at this,” Loki observes. His fingers mechanically play with the brown curls at the nape of her neck. “In fact, I would say that you’re getting worse.” When his fingertips brush against her skin, Darcy starts as if shocked.

“ _Not_ helping,” she grumbles, twisting her engagement ring nervously.

“Miss Lewis, if you would please just pretend for a few moments.”

“And you? Are you pretending?” Darcy whispers angrily, twisting her head to face him.  Loki’s lips thin in displeasure. _You didn’t really expect to admit his own feelings, did you? Idiot._ “Not _everyone_ has to lie,” Darcy says so softly she barely hears herself. But Loki does. His eyes tighten, a cue that Darcy is starting to understand is his way of bracing himself. (Some of his illusions are easier to spot now.) Loki swallows hard, and she feels a wave of guilt wash over her. _Oh that’s just lovely, you made him look like a wounded puppy dog for a second time today._ “That… wasn’t an insult,” Darcy clarifies.

In the back of her head, she prays that her mother is still distracted by her father’s detailed explanation of the etymology of the word ‘Friday,’ apparently stemming from the Old Norse name ‘Frigg.’

“Miss Lewis, I know that you don’t-”

“No, you _think_ you know.” _You couldn’t be further from the truth if you tried. And I don’t know how to explain that to you._

Loki’s eyebrows furrow in annoyance.

“Do you mean to constantly speak in riddles?”

His eyes look really green in this light, and he’s close enough that it’s impossible for Darcy to hide how she glances down at his lips and then back up again.

“Huh? Um. No,” Darcy stutters. “No, I’m just… incoherent and, uh, you’re kinda staring straight into my eyes right now, and it’s making it hard to concentrate.”

Loki lets out a tiny almost-smile, and his tongue flits out to wet his lips. _Goddammit._

“Do you have to do that?”

“Do what?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow and doing the damn smirk thing again.

“That’s it. I give up.”

“Oh, sweetling,” Loki says in a low voice, one that makes Darcy shift uncomfortably in her seat. “I haven’t even started yet.”

“Started what?”

“Why, seducing you, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taking me so long to get each chapter done. I'm taking a break for the holidays, but I'm hoping that I'll get back into the swing of things come January... Thank you so much for the continued support! My writer's block apologizes. (And anyone who's been following this story: thank you so much, y'all are cuties <3)


	11. Guilty as Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seduction, power plays, and... a cupcake-patterned apron?

Five fucking days. Five days of almost-kisses and panty-dropping grins, of ‘accidentally’ brushing past her in the hallway and always just happening to be in some state of undress whenever Darcy walks into their shared bedroom. Loki has taken a no-holds-barred approach to his seduction, and he’s been extraordinarily _thorough_ about it, too.

Frigga’s daily lectures provide a momentary reprieve from the Grand Seduction, though How Not To Fail At Queen Things is monumentally less enjoyable than the teasing attentions of a green-eyed Norse god (and no more straight-forward). Loki, meanwhile, has been relegated to the kitchen to help Mrs. Lewis. If he looks down on it as servants’ work, he doesn’t say anything about it.

Darcy can’t help but doubt whether a week of crash courses in etiquette will be sufficient preparation, but Frigga assures her that once the wedding festivities are over, she can return to her job and things can go back to normal. _Or as close to normal as possible, where moving to an alien ‘realm’ to live in a frozen ice castle with a demigod is concerned._

It’s one of the many injustices of the universe that said demigod still looks appealing while wearing a cupcake-patterned apron. Especially when paired with that crooked grin, the one that promises something terrible and beautiful.

It’s a grin that spells trouble.

He looks exactly like the kind of boy that sensible mothers in made-for-TV movies warn their daughters about, though Darcy assumes that more has something to do with internalized notions of purity or whatever. _Not that you’re in any danger, Lewis._ There are no repeats of their first night here; Loki stays firmly on his side of the bed. It’s almost disappointing.

Darcy opts to eat dark chocolate and pretend that she doesn’t crave the feeling of his fingers back between her legs, his mouth slanting against her own. Loki’s play is to merely _hint_ at it all, to trail the those long fingers along her arms or at the base of her spine, just under her shirt – and then to pull away. Always pulling away.

In Darcy’s humble opinion, if there existed a medal for being annoying – or annoyingly good at exuding sex, she hasn’t determined which it is yet – Loki would win hands-down. And therein lies the problem: Darcy knows that this is about winning. Everything with Loki is about games and tricks and prizes. She just doesn’t know what the prize _is_.

“What you have is the opposite of a problem, Darce,” Jane sighs into the receiver after Darcy finally cracks and calls Stark Tower to vent. “Maybe you’re over-thinking things.”

“Over- _thinking things?_ ”

Darcy may have come across as a little manic, because Jane puts her on speaker phone and swiftly grabs reinforcements (also known as Thor). There is something extremely comforting about the God of Thunder. Probably the fact that he always sounds like he’s just eaten a package of pop tarts and is riding out that sugar high like there’s no tomorrow. Actually, scratch ‘sounds like.’ Jane admits to Darcy that Bruce has started setting part of his budget aside for office snacks. Apparently the ‘Big Guy’ was getting upset about purloined foodstuffs.

After Darcy ends the call, she really shouldn’t be surprised to find an unread text from Tony asking if she and Reindeer Games have sealed the deal yet. After all, Thor’s voice does tend to... carry. And Stark likes to poke his nose into everyone’s business.

But because she’s the bigger person, Darcy doesn’t respond rashly. No, she simply asks if Tony has popped the question yet – ‘Well played, Lewis’ – and shuts her phone off before Stark gets Dr. Bruce ‘Accidental guidance counsellor to the Avengers’ Banner involved.

\--

Dinner is a quiet affair. Loki keeps his hands (mostly) to himself, and Darcy’s parents are too wrapped up in a whispered discussion about wedding presents – _They never were the subtle types_ – to notice when Darcy excuses herself early.

 _Loki_ notices, of course. She really ought to have expected him to follow her, though she doesn’t hear the bedroom door open after she closes it, doesn’t hear his footsteps against the hardwood floor. Only when Loki speaks does she realize that she isn’t alone.

“Darling.” _Snuck up behind you like a fucking cat, he did._

It’s a hell of a way to announce his presence, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear and whispering words like liquid gold. (Or maybe liquid silver would be more accurate.) Darcy feels more than a little pathetic for how such a simple touch can seem so… _lovely_.

 _No, Lewis. You aren't going there. You are a rational human being_ , Darcy reminds herself. _Mind over matter, right?_

It’s not particularly convincing, but it’s enough to make Darcy step forward and put some space back between them. Of course, then she does the stupid thing, and turns around so they can have a normal conversation. Like grownups.

_Real swell plan, Darce._

Loki's hands land at her waist and he tugs her closer, luring her back in.

 _Mind over matter._ Her mind races with potential end-games, reasons why Loki is doing this at all. Her heart races as Chaos Incarnate enters second base territory. Darcy grits her teeth. _Mind over matter._

But she can feel herself splitting, her desire warring with her thoughts. (Well, some of her thoughts. Quite a few of her thoughts – the turncoats – are already more happily occupied on the desire front.)

 _Get out of the line of fire, Lewis_ , Rational Darcy orders herself sternly. _Retreat!_

Irrational Darcy clearly couldn’t give two fucks, because she finds herself instead pressing up closer against Loki, who lifts her easily up onto the bed.

His arms form a cage around her, and Darcy pushes against his chest, tilting her hips upward and flipping them over.

"Stop playing with me, Loki."

“I’m not playing," he replies. A negation that's practically a reflex; they both know it isn't true. Darcy keeps her gaze focused on Loki's eyes, searching for something, she isn't sure what. All she gets for her trouble is a pair of pupils blown wide, set in green pools that threaten to drown her.

 _So easy to love._ The thought scares her. She understands now why Loki was always Frigga's favourite: his eyes are begging to be loved, even if his mouth spits out words like 'sentiment' as if they disgust him.

“Liar,” Darcy mumbles, smothering the bitter little truth with her own lips slanted over his.

“Is this what you wanted, Miss Lewis?" Loki growls, breaking the kiss. "A monster between your thighs?”

If this is his pièce de résistance, Loki's really losing his touch. Admitting that she wants him - desires him - isn't a surrender at all. And he couldn't be so cruel as to use her feelings against her. This is purely physical. _Isn't it?_

"I wanted _you_ between my thighs," Darcy answers bluntly. Maybe it's her directness, or maybe it's the fact that she's grinding her hips against his, sending jolts of pleasure to her core, but Loki doesn't have any good response to that. He rears his head up to catch her lips in another kiss, letting out a low moan when he notices Darcy's hand sliding down his stomach, unzipping his jeans, and slipping under the dark waistband.

He bucks against her when Darcy wraps her fingers around him, and she thinks she caught him off-guard.

"Tit for tat, right?"

Loki's laugh is hoarser than normal, but he still looks mostly unaffected, despite certain evidence to the contrary. It's definitely not a day for superhuman stamina: it takes no more than a few fast strokes and a whispered 'Loki' for the god to let go, his eyes shutting tightly, as if for a brief moment he is as vulnerable as any mortal.

As his ragged breaths even out, Darcy relishes in that small look of something that isn't _not_ love as Loki's eyes narrow into contented slits. It's what power feels like, she thinks. Watching someone come apart at your hands.

That and firing a Taser.

"I suppose we're even now," Loki says finally. He snaps his fingers to clean up the mess (handy, that) and now Darcy registers the look of triumph in his eyes as he adds: "Miss Lewis."

\--

 _Cause we both know I'll never be your lover_  
_I only bring the heat_  
 _Company under cover_  
 _Filling space in your sheets_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are my life blood. By the way, I 100% have another chapter in the works right now, so I apologize if this is a little shorter, but the pacing required that I cut things off. Love you all!!!! And have a happy orthodox Christmas <3


	12. The Cold of Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot happens. Angst. Lots of angst. Also the author attempts a bit of smut.

“Miss Lewis.”

Darcy doesn’t notice herself react at first, but when she looks down, she finds that her hands are now bunched tightly in Loki’s sweater. There’s a stupid sort of comfort in the tangible reminder that he is here and solid and _with her_ , and Darcy can’t make herself let go.

(She can’t seem to shake the notion that the moment she loosens her grip, he’ll slip away.)

For a moment the two of them stay perfectly still; Darcy can hear the blood pounding in her ears, her heartbeat stuttering, while, Loki’s chest rises and falls steadily. Even the flush in his cheeks has already disappeared.

As Darcy gazes into those dark, guarded eyes, she finds herself despising the God a little bit. Maybe she cares too much – everything about him practically _compels_ her to – but Loki is like an emotional faucet that might turn off at any second.

The sudden distance hurts more than any angry outburst. Darcy trusts implicitly that Loki doesn’t _mean_ to hurt her – well, 88% of her trusts as much – but if this is a display, then it is for _her_ benefit. To prove how easily he can withdraw. How easily _she_ can be discarded.

Proof that _he_ doesn’t care.

Loki could simply want to protect himself from the danger of placing his heart in the hands of another. _Probably a wise course of action, since you’re liable to drop anything you’re holding, Lewis._ But, intentionally or not, it’s also further affirmation that Darcy is screwed; that giving him her own heart is an imprudent, inadvisable, terrible, awful idea.

_After all, should you let yourself fall in love someone who could never love you in return?_ Darcy’s brain knows the answer to whether one _should_ do so, but it also knowsexactly whether or not she _would_ (and it’s unimpressed with her, to say the least).

Because, of course, Darcy already has.

\--

The silence drags on.

_Okay. Game plan: brush it off, Lewis. Just breathe in…_ Loki’s eyes crinkle ever so slightly. _Breathe out._ His tongue darts out to lick his lips. _In. Out._ And there’s that knife’s-edge smirk again. _Snark is a dish best served cold, Agent_. A last-ditch attempt to stay calm.

Pointless, really.

“I love you,” Darcy blurts out. It isn’t a good comeback at all.

\--

He leaves. Just rolls her over and drops her unceremoniously onto the bed before teleporting himself off to wherever it is Norse Gods go to be angsty.

“Wow. Show me how you really feel,” Darcy grumbles into the empty room.

Now she’s alone, with only her thoughts to ~~comfort~~ rudely chastise her… _That was certainly an_ efficient _seduction, Lewis. You got to the awkward ‘feelings’ part where you confess your love and he rejects you like a cad_ before _you even had to go through with consummating your passion or succumbing to the physical pleasures to be found in each other’s lush bosoms or whatever the hell it is that seduced people do._

“Couldn’t even get my heart broken properly.”

Darcy mechanically changes into her lace PJ’s, grabbing her trusty iPod before slipping under the duvet.

It’s probably self-destructive, but she taps ‘Genres’ and scrolls down to the (mostly bare) classical music section to find the few waltzes loaded onto the device. As she settles her head on the fluffy pillows, Darcy presses play, losing herself in the delicate keystrokes of Chopin’s Number I Dunno from Opus Something.

For a few brief minutes, she relives that waltz on Asgard, the backless black dress and the way Loki’s eyes burned into her as he lowered her into a dip, the feeling of skin against skin… Darcy brushes off the twinge of regret, and focuses on the music until the sting of tears is impossible to ignore, forcing her to flip onto her stomach and switch to a new song.

_Enough wallowing about Loki._

Of course, then ‘Almost Lover’ starts playing. Even Darcy will admit that it’s funny (in a terrible, ironic sort of way). Though not funny enough to keep another wave of self-pity at bay. _Come on, Shuffle. Don’t do this to me right now._ But things only go from bad to worse: ‘Love The Way You Lie’ is out of the question; Darcy gives a firm no to ‘Skinny Love’; ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ gets a slightly more hesitant no ( _Oooh, Elvis! - Darcy, no. No heartbreak, and_ no _loneliness_ )…

When ‘Mad World’ starts playing, Darcy takes it as a sign from whatever Gods don’t currently hate her that it’s beddie-bye for ‘Miss Lewis.’ She sniffles, biting back the waterworks because _there has been altogether too much crying this week_ and throws her iPod into the half-open suitcase beside the bed before curling up into the fetal position like a normal adult who has everything under control.

\--

It's impossible to fall asleep. The certainty that Loki would soon return has faded, replaced by the fear that he's somehow gone, that the Loki she knows, grown too soft and breakable, has been cast off into yet another void. _Leaving only a shell behind_ , her brain finishes the thought. _A murderous, unhinged shell._

Darcy wonders whether it's the brittleness or the vulnerability that lies at the core of him. Is his humanity, for lack a better word, something he puts on, or something he allows in his moments of weakness? Is it only a tool? Used, permitted closeness for a time, and then discarded like one lover in a long, Byronic list of conquests?

(He doesn't treat his real lovers much better... Whooshing off into the night like some second-rate street magician. _That's unfair, Darcy. It's a good trick. Yeah, and a dick move_.)

The untouched covers on the other side of the bed are like a silent accusation, every creak of the floorboards that isn’t one of Loki’s footsteps another indictment against Darcy’s poor judgment.

She feels guilty, as though she’s done something she shouldn’t. But loving Loki is like a habit that only the God himself finds easy to kick.

\--

It’s late when Loki finally gets back, a thump at the door the only warning before he stumbles in. _Is he drunk?_ Darcy throws off her covers and stands up, preparing herself for a long-winded rant about just how _fucking irresponsible this was_ , but as the door shuts behind him, she freezes.

Gold and leather and mussed hair. _Where the hell has he been?_ The air reeks of ozone, and when Loki turns to look at her, his eyes are glassy.

“Darcy,” he murmurs, and before she can respond, Darcy is pinned to the bed, Loki’s hands wrapped lightly around her wrists, his hips nestled between her thighs. _Wha- Superhuman speed. Right. Almost forgot about that._ Loki pauses and stares down at her with something like awe, too heady and intoxicating to allow Darcy to think before pressing her lips to his, lifting her head and arching for him.

Loki’s kisses are normally full of smug, lazy ease, but right now they’re frantic, like this connection of mouths is the most important thing on the planet and everything else can hold on for one more second. His hands leave her wrists, and Darcy is so caught up in the new feeling of his fingers sliding down her bare curves that she doesn’t quite register when exactly her negligee disappeared, only that she’s glad it did.

Darcy gasps when Loki’s lips move southward, teeth nipping at the side of her neck, the dip of her collarbones, and then further, that much too talented tongue sucking the tips of her breasts into hardened peaks, and _Darcy what the fuck are you doing?_ She can’t bring herself to care. If this is to be purely physical, then dammit, she’s gonna enjoy it.

“You _are_ enjoying this, aren’t you?” Loki says, his voice laced with a roughness that wasn’t there before. Darcy stills, waiting for him to mock her for how wet she already knows she is – her boxers (she just _had_ to wear her least sexy underwear today) are probably soaked by now – but Loki only bites gently at the inside of her thigh and then her final article of clothing is being tugged over her hips and past her knees before being unceremoniously thrown to the floor.

His hands circle her waist, dragging Darcy a few inches down the bed, and then her legs are hooked over Loki’s shoulders and his mouth is levelled at the very heat of her.

“Oh-”

Darcy’s mouth opens in a silent gasp, and her hips move of their own accord, bucking, aching for more than the teasing feeling of his breath against her sex. At long last, Loki’s tongue darts out to taste her. Her hands drop down to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, unsure if she’s trying to push him away or pull him closer…

There are only so many Silvertongue jokes to be made on this planet, and even fewer that are genuinely funny, but suffice it to say that Loki more than lives up to the title. In _all_ respects.

“You. Are. Delicious,” Loki growls against her clit, his fingers rubbing gentle circles against the skin of Darcy’s thighs before moving ever higher, close and closer to where she’s aching for them, finally sliding into her entrance. His tongue continues to tease her, and she can feel the slightest hint of stubble rubbing against the sensitive skin between her legs. _Too much._ Darcy loosens her grip, clenching her hands in the bed sheets as she feels herself near the brink.

“Beautiful,” Loki whispers, and with a final thrust of his fingers, Darcy comes.

She’s still trembling slightly when Loki makes his way back up the bed. He kisses her hungrily, and she can taste herself on his tongue, mixed with that unique something that is totally and utterly him. _He is entirely too dressed right now_ , she decides, and she tugs at his leathers weakly, her arms not yet fully back under her control. Loki grins and with a roll his shoulders, he is gorgeously naked. _Well thank fuck for that._

He groans when Darcy flicks her tongue into his mouth, and he lowers his chest, her breasts squashed against his lean muscles. Loki’s – _hem_ – ‘desire’ is evident, and Darcy moans when she feels his cock between her legs, pressing insistently against her thigh.

Loki breaks the kiss, pure green eyes open and _vulnerable_ , and Darcy presses a hand to his cheek, wanting him to see the love in her eyes even if she knows not to repeat the sentiment aloud.

“Loki.”

He blinks and shakes his head.

“Fuck.”

Loki lets out several more curses (in Norse, she thinks) before lifting himself off of Darcy, throwing a sheet over her as he presses his palms to his eyes.

“A dream,” he’s muttering. “Just another dream.” _‘Another’ dream?_ Darcy feels a slight hint of pride at that, though when Loki looks back at Darcy, still wrapped in only a white sheet, he gives first the bed sheet, and then Darcy herself, a death glare.

“Not a dream,” she says pointedly.

“Yes, I did realize that. Rather I had hoped…”

“What? That it _had_ been a dream?” His silence is answer enough. _Ouch._ “I’m… uh, I’m sorry?”

“Sorry?” Loki laughs drily. “Miss Lewis, do _not_ apologize to me. Not for this.”

“Oh, I’m ‘Miss Lewis’ again?” Darcy lets out her own attempt at a sardonic chuckle. No way is he getting away with this shit right now.

“Darcy, then.” He hesitates. “Are you… hurt in any way?”

“Hurt? Why would I be hurt?” The God remains tense. _Oh. OH. What do you_ _think of yourself?_ “Loki,” Darcy says more softly. “You know that I was very much _enthusiastically_ involved in everything that just happened, right? And I… I liked it, okay?” She blushes. ‘Liked’ being the understatement of the century. “Whatever monstrous things you believe yourself capable of, don’t you dare add this to your list of sins.”

Loki turns to face her, and now Darcy notices the sheen of scar tissue on his chest, the skin right above his heart healing before her eyes.

“You went back.” A nod. _That explains the renewed self-hatred, at least._ “Are you _kidding_ me? We get in a fight and you’re first thought is, ‘Welp, better go _to Hel_ and _kill myself_ ’?!”

“One thousand two hun-”

“Two hundred and eighty-four lives,” Darcy finishes. “I know.” Even as she says it, she settles onto her side, letting her hand reach out and graze the final fading edges of the wound.

“They weren’t there,” Loki says quietly, carefully pulling Darcy to his chest.

“Yes, well, I imagine the souls of the departed have better things to do,” she replies.

“You are missing the point, Mis- Darcy.”

“Which point? The one where Hel gets you to go around impaling yourself on sharp knives – speaking of which, is that, like, _normal_ for you people? – and then… what? Declares you insufficiently deceased?”

Loki’s voice reverberates under her ear.

“She said that only the guilty may see the dead.”

“Guess that makes you innocent, then,” Darcy mumbles into his chest.

_The innocent damn themselves by believing themselves damned._ The thought crosses her mind briefly, and passes just as quickly; it’s early in the morning, and she’s tired, and soon Darcy is falling asleep, clinging to the God of Mischief as though her short arms are enough to make him stay.

Loki presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“Perhaps, Darcy Lewis.”

And maybe he whispers a thank you into her ear.

And after that, when he’s certain she isn’t awake, maybe he adds an apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally do not have an excuse for any of this. I don't know what this is, it kinda got derailed but also I think I like it??? Please leave your kudos (if you liked it) and any comments so I know how this is sitting with you lovelies. <3


	13. Two Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuddles and fluff and the author being silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And lo, the heavens did open, and a chorus of angels descended, saying: "Eyesy, write a damn update."  
> And so she did.

Darcy wakes up wrapped in a cocoon of Norse God.

Which is... not as sexy as it might sound, actually. For a Frost giant, Loki generates a hell of a lot of body heat, and it's kind of like lying directly beside a radiator. A radiator that spoons in its sleep.

Loki's arm rests at her waist, one hand curled protectively over her breast, and the God must have thrown a leg over her sometime in the course of the night, because their limbs are now hopelessly entangled.

Darcy wiggles, trying to free herself from Radiator Ass, but he simply tightens his hold on her as he stirs in his sleep.

Another part of him... also stirs.

"Loki," Darcy grumbles. "It's time to get up."

He lets out an annoyed little huffing sound, his breath making the curls at the base of Darcy's scalp flutter, and her heart begins to thump faster.

He's awake.

Loki is awake, and he hasn't made any move to let her go. Meaning that they've officially crossed the line from unintentional sleep-spooning to very intentional spooning.

(Darcy is certain that there's a boundary to be drawn between the two, even if she's a little mixed-up on where the one ends and the other begins. Maybe Cosmo could get on this if the editors would just let up on advising their readers in the art of using a banana to spice up your sex life.)

The point is... well, the point is that this needs to stop, since Darcy is obviously in no place to think rationally so early in the morning.

"We need to be in New York by 11," she attempts.

"Mmhph," Loki mumbles into his pillow.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Two more minutes." His voice is rough from sleep. "So warm..."

"Too warm," Darcy says pointedly. "And we need t-" A light chill runs over her, and Darcy stifles a gasp when the arm at her waist fades to a dull blue colour. "To pack," she finishes lamely.

Two suitcases click shut at the foot of the bed, and Darcy knows enough to guess that their clothes have already been magically folded and packed, and probably more neatly than she could ever manage.

"Better?"

It's impossible to disguise that damnable smugness.

"Fine," Darcy bites out grumpily, but she can't contain her sigh as cool fingers slide soothingly across her skin.

His Frostiness nuzzles against the back of her neck, this battle clearly won.

"Two minutes," he hums contentedly.

One hundred and twenty seconds later, Loki is still curled up around her like a persistent oversized cat.

"Do you have any intention of ever letting me go?" Darcy asks, arching her neck to get a look at him over her shoulder.

"Never," Loki purrs, gleaming red eyes blinking open in time to meet hers.

"Never is an awfully long time," Darcy whispers, perhaps childishly, and a slow smile spreads across Loki's face. There is nothing childish in his gaze.

"That was the plan, sweetling."

Darcy's breath catches in her throat.

"Why do you call me that?"

A brush of cold air against her ear: an exhale.

"Because." Darcy squeaks as she finds herself being rolled onto her back, hands bunching in white bedsheets, and Loki begins to trail his lips down her front."You. Are." Each word is punctuated with a soft kiss. "So." He's almost between her legs now. "Sweet."

Darcy's brain short-circuits for a moment, her fingers tangling in that head of raven-black hair. Suddenly, getting to New York is the furthest thing from her mind.

"Not playing fair," she moans, and dammit if Loki doesn't lift his chin just to laugh before going back to his task of rendering the mortal totally incoherent.

He succeeds. Twice.

Personally, Darcy thinks she ought to be awarded a medal for managing to ever get out of bed again, after that kind of convincing.

"I don't play fair," Loki adds later, standing on the dusty walkway outside of Casa Lewis. "Because this isn't a game." Green eyes gaze down at her, and Darcy tries not to believe them. "It never was."

_Don't_.

Loki threads his fingers through hers.

_Don't_ _be_ _romantic_.

"Don't let go?" Darcy murmurs, taking one last look at home; a predictably weepy Mrs. Lewis and a slightly more stoic Mr. Lewis wave from the porch.

"Never."

Darcy's parents are already being obscured by a bright gold light.

"Love you!" Darcy calls out, and Loki swallows her goodbye with a kiss as her vision goes white.

His lips are insistent, a reassuring pressure that distracts her from the strange feeling of being at once unmade and put back together.

When Loki pulls away, they've arrived, and for the first time, when the sparks clear, Darcy isn't dizzy.

There is one problem, however: they aren't in New York.

Loki clears his throat awkwardly, and Darcy blinks.

They stare, confused, at their surroundings. A crowd of surprised Parisians stares back at them.

"The Eiffel tower," Darcy says conversationally. "Would you look at th-"

Another flash, and they're on the fourth floor of Stark Tower.

"Um." Darcy nudges Merlin the Marvelous Magician. "What was that?"

She could be imagining things, but she's pretty sure Mischief turns slightly pink.

"I believe it was a Midgardian who said that any man capable of navigating safely while kissing a pretty girl is not giving the kiss the attention it deserves."

Now it's Darcy's turn to blush.

She had never expected the loosely quoted words of Albert Einstein to be part of Loki's repertoire. It's oddly cute.

"Hell of a kiss," she replies.

Loki grins.

"That it was."

Then Pepper rounds the corner, talking animatedly into a Bluetooth. Her face pales as she takes in the couple standing in front of her.

"Paris? Paris, France?" she's asking, her eyes wide.

"Bit of a detour," Darcy mumbles apologetically. God, they're probably a publicist's personal hell.

Pepper taps a pen against her clipboard.

"Let me call you back." She hangs up and sighs. "Darcy, Loki. Welcome back."

\--

_Six_ _days_ _until_ _the_ _wedding_.

Maybe Darcy shouldn't have been so eager to get back to New York. The entire week is dedicated to what Pepper calls 'generating buzz.' Like they're trying to sell some B-level movie instead of... well, selling themselves as a believable couple.

Pepper's itinerary is demanding: an appearance on every breakfast television show known to man, several late night shows, radio interviews, and of course the obligatory public sightings.

Darcy has never had to take so many selfies in one coffee run. And she's definitely never been asked for her autograph before. They must be doing something right, though; within a couple hours, the upcoming Jötunn wedding is soon trending on Twitter.

They sleep in separate beds back in the apartment. Darcy bunches pillows to one side and pretends she doesn't miss Prince Cuddle Puddle.

\--

_Five_ _days_.

Darcy and Loki even have fans, which is weird, to say the least. They ask much tougher questions than any Pepper-approved interviewers, things like what of ice cream you would be, or which Spice Girl you are. Silly things, mostly.

But then one woman asks Loki how he knew he was in love.

Darcy freezes; she can't hear his answer from inside the waiting van. A laugh, and Loki slips into his seat beside her.

Darcy's patience only lasts around thirty seconds before she has to ask how he answered.

"I said that it was right after you called me an arrogant twat."

So you do love me? she doesn't say.

And really? That's when? she doesn't ask.

"One of my prouder moments, I'll admit."

They leave it at that.

\--

_Four_ _days_.

The quote blows up on Tumblr, somehow further ingratiating them with the fickle public, and the next day, Pepper buys Darcy a Venti frappuccino. It's her equivalent of a high-five, Darcy figures.

Darcy tells Conan (they're on first-name basis) about introducing Loki to her parents, and the studio audience laughs at all the right times, absolutely charmed. She smiles and hopes that there isn't any lipstick on her teeth.

Loki doesn't look _too_  murderous when Conan compliments Darcy on her dress, and apparently the audience finds him funny. Something about 'dry wit,' which is actually just evidence that you can get away with saying a lot when you say it in a nice accent.

Loki takes naturally to being in the spotlight. Shocker, that. He's even likable, when he tries to be. And Darcy has started this new positive-reinforcement training technique where every time Loki says something nice to her friends, she doesn't elbow him in the gut.

"That's negative reinforcement," Jane sighs.

"Whatever, Pavlov."

\--

_Three_ _days_.

On Thursday night, Loki decides to practice teleporting and takes them around the world, flashes of international cities blurring between messy, desperate kisses. They even drop by Paris again.

All as a joke, obviously.

Even Director Fury finds it funny, which is why he takes Darcy aside and give her a lecture about magical travel methods and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s stance on them.

(Okay, the look on Fury's face is totally worth it.)

(And it _was_ a teeny weeny bit romantic.)

\--

_Two_   _days_.

Darcy beats Loki in a water fight on Ellen. The sight of a dripping wet and vengeful God dressed in an essentially see-through white button-down is a bonus.

Loki plays Box of Lies against Jimmy Fallon. He wins.

Darcy laughs and realizes that she isn't faking it this time.

Loki kisses Darcy on national television.

The earth doesn't stop spinning on its axis.

\--

_One_ _day_.

"Loki?" It's early on the morning, and honestly they should stop making a habit of these kinds of encounters, but Darcy can't sleep. Not alone. Not tonight. "May I come in?"

"By all means."

Either Darcy is super tired or her brain wanted to take that literally, since she finds several possible ways of slipping and sliding across the hardwood floor before eventually stumbling into bed beside him.

"Stark has threatened to organize a feast," Loki murmurs, one arm reaching out from below his duvet to tug Darcy close.

"A bachelor party?" The duvet crinkles. A nod. "Shit."

"I daresay I'll survive."

"I'm more worried about the groomsmen."

Darcy tries not to envision Thor and Loki challenging everyone to a drinking contest.

"No mischief, I promise."

"None?" Darcy yawns.

Loki pauses.

"Only a little," he allows. Darcy can live with that. "Goodnight, sweetling," Loki says more softly, and even if Darcy hadn't meant to fall asleep, her eyelids are growing heavier...

"G'night. Love you," she mumbles.

Her brain catches up a second later.

_Fuck_.

Darcy stiffens back into semi-alertness, shoulders tensing as she prepares to escape. _I_ _should_ _go, I should go, I should-_

"Stay," Loki whispers. "You should stay."

She hesitates, but the God has a vice grip around her waist, having decided to use her as a teddy bear, and after all, it's so warm...

_Just two minutes._

\--

_"You're too old to be so shy,"_

_he says to me so I stay the night_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill: kudos/comments in exchange for my copious apologies for being ridiculous and literally taking forever to write this. Thank you for reading, my lovelies <333


	14. Quite Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day before the wedding... which means, of course, actual wedding planning, Norse angst, dancing, alcohol, and some smexy timez.

"Holy fuck," Darcy mutters, staring down at the latest of Pepper's infamous Lists. 'Spa visit' is now crossed off, every conceivable inch of Darcy's skin having already been waxed, shaved, plucked, buffed, and moisturized by a troupe of sadistic little Russian ladies. (The cucumber water in no way made up for this torturous bridal treatment.) "I'm getting married tomorrow."

"Really, Darce? You only just realized?" Jane asks, looking up from a pile of lace samples.

"You shut your _face_ , Foster," Darcy retorts. "I was having a grand old time pretending to be preparing for a high-profile movie premiere."

Pepper laughs.

“What spoiled the illusion?”

"My co-star."

"Yes, I can see how the 24/7 eye sex could be distracting," Jane says sagely, taking a sip of Prosecco.

"I- what?" Darcy nearly falls out of her chair. "What are you...? Jane, that's absolutely ridic-"

Jane raises an eyebrow, and Darcy goes back to perusing Pepper's list, shaking her head.

“Hey, you didn’t say there were gonna be dance lessons, too!” she squawks when she reaches the next bullet point. Jane hands her a freshly re-filled champagne flute, like a true friend. “I thought today was supposed to be about _relaxation_.”

“It's for the first dance, so you don't fall over," Jane replies in what she probably thinks is a reassuring tone, and Darcy mentally takes back the ‘true friend’ comment. _At least_ I’ve _never dropped a new laptop on the ground because ‘Thor startled me.’_

“And who said the day before a wedding was _ever_ relaxing?” Pepper adds, rummaging through a pile of pie charts (when Fury promised that Ms. Potts would have everything covered, he definitely wasn’t exaggerating). “Steve, could you pass me that notebook?”

Captain America himself (also known as the one Avenger who _didn’t_ bail) is sitting awkwardly at the other end of the table, his Dorito-chip proportions looking comically ridiculous in the context of one of Stark’s ergonomic desk chairs. He stares helplessly at the pile of identical black notebooks in front of him, and Darcy sinks lower in her seat.

11 a.m., and she’s already certain that she’s going to need a lot more Bellinis to be able to get through the day.

 _Loki_ isn’t being forced to help with wedding prep. No, _he_ managed to conveniently incur Thor’s wrath right before they were called down to the meeting room, and it _simply couldn’t wait, because ‘after all, this is a matter of_ honour _.’_ Darcy calls bullshit.

Bruce and Tony, meanwhile, had been let off the hook with their claim that they needed to, quote, ‘do science.’ And Clint and Natasha… well, those two have a habit of disappearing.

This isn't how Darcy envisioned her wedding. Frankly, she hadn't really envisioned a wedding for herself, period. Maybe a mistake in Las Vegas after meeting a dashing stranger, or a spur-of-the-moment elopement, but not this...

Not an entire morning of planning and Pepper Potts holding near-identical colour swatches to her face, asking things like “Does ‘Tundra Dreams’ or ‘Celery Salt’ look more… _wedding_?”

It feels like being at an optometrist appointment, Darcy’s palms growing sweaty as a clinical voice asks if Lens A or Lens B is better.

 _Maybe this is actually a trick and they’re the same colour. I mean, they’re both fucking white. How many different shades could there possibly be?_ (Over fifty-seven, apparently – way, _way_ over fifty-seven, but Darcy gave up after ‘Cloudy Bliss.’)

Pepper finally decides on Tundra Dreams, neatly recording the details in one of her black notebooks before turning to the pile of lace samples. Jane tries to cover up a sigh; she really isn't any more cut out for this stuff than Darcy is, and she seems to feel the loss of her lab – even for a day – quite keenly.

"No lace, I beg of you," Darcy groans in her best Mr. Bennett voice, which is, admittedly, atrocious.

"No more champagne until you pick one," Pepper says mock-sternly. She also more sternly confiscates Darcy’s glass.

" _Miss Potts_ ," JARVIS interrupts suddenly. " _Mr. Stark will_ -"

"Hey Peps! Hate to interrupt, but uh… Mr. Scary Eye Patch has arrived unexpectedly." Stark strides into the room, closely followed by Bruce, Natasha, and a dishevelled Clint, who looks like he just got woken up.

"- _soon be joining you_ ," finishes Tony's long-suffering AI.

 “What’s going on?” Darcy asks, setting aside a swath of lace that looks like it’s made out of snowflakes. _Pretty_ , part of her brain notes, trying to remain calm.

One word is explanation enough.

"Odin," Tasha says grimly.

Tony has several more, less savoury, words to add, and Darcy can’t help siding with him. Come on, the Allfather compared Jane to a goat. She’s not letting that grudge go anytime soon.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Goldilocks look so angry,” Clint comments, settling into a chair. “Going on about apples or something,” he yawns.

“And how am I equipped for this?” Darcy asks.

“We need diplomacy, not superhero antics, Lewis. And we need it stat. Tulio and Miguel looked ready to throw down.”

“ _The Road to El Dorado_ , Tony? Really?”

“More like _The Road to Perdition_ ,” Stark replies. “The Allfather has zero chill.” Not exactly an incorrect assessment. “It’s like the next episode of _Keeping Up With The Asgardians_ down there.”

“In _my_ lab,” Bruce mutters.

“How bad is it?”

“Worse than the time Point Break beat his brother at Mario Kart."

Darcy winces.

“So what about all... this?” She gestures at Pepper’s road show of lace samples, not wanting to surrender Jane to such a fate.

“I’ll handle it,” Clint steps in.

“Barton, you’re wearing sweatpants and a backwards T-shirt.”

“And you’re wearing leggings as pants, Darce. I’m not sure you can judge right now,” Jane counters. Darcy is about to explain that maybe if every inch of her skin weren’t on fire she might care about being fashionable, but she doesn’t get the chance. “We’ve got this. Go.”

\--

Darcy can hear raised voices from the stairwell, and she sprints through the lab door, not even flinching when it slams behind her.

Odin’s back is to her, and he looks tense. Loki and Thor are both facing him – fighting for the same side, for once – and neither one looks happy.

“Hey guys!” Darcy says brightly, taking a deep breath as three of the most powerful Norse Gods latch their eyes onto her. Thor and Loki both fall silent. “What’s going on?”

She can feel Odin’s eyes tracking her as she walks past him and toward Loki, cupping his face in her hands and pressing a kiss to his mouth, her eyes wide open. Eventually, she feels Loki relax against her, his eyelids falling shut, and only then does she break away.

“Darcy-” Loki stutters, his eyes cracking open. Darcy gazes at him unblinkingly.

 _Do you trust me?_ He doesn’t even pause before nodding once, curtly. _I want you to go and wait for me outside. Can you do that?_ Loki sucks in his cheeks and narrows his eyes.

“I need to speak with the Allfather,” Darcy says aloud, and she lowers her arms to her sides, turning around to face Mr. Father of the Year. “Alone.”

Once Thing 1 and Thing 2 are finally out of the picture – Thor stomps more loudly than necessary as he exits the lab, but Darcy can only expect so much of him – Darcy finally lets her eyes meet Odin’s. _Asgardians have a complex social structure similar to that of wolves_ , she preps herself. _Establish dominance. Be the alpha._

Easier said than done, mostly because Darcy can’t remember how to be dominant beyond the principle of strong eye contact. _You are the alpha_ , she assures herself as she stares down her future father-in-law.

“You have quite the effect on my son,” Odin says finally. She isn’t sure if she’s won ground or lost some by letting him be the first to speak. Darcy also doesn’t know how to respond to that statement.

“Um, I-”

“I suppose you think he cares about you.”

“Sir, I’m not so delusional as to pretend to know what he’s thinking,” Darcy answers, subconsciously squaring her shoulders. A fighting stance.

“Do you believe that he’s changed?”

“Changed from what to what?” Darcy asks, refusing to play into more stupid Asgardian political manoeuvrings. She’s already been roped into a marriage, and she sure as hell isn’t going to be trampled on by a dude with a metal eye patch and a cape.

“Miss Lewis, any fool could tell that you’re in love him. And it is an admirable sentiment…” There’s that word. The dreaded ‘S’ word. _Must be where Loki got it from._ “But you can’t fix him,” the Allfather intones.

“Fix him?” Darcy stares at Odin for a moment. _Is he serious?_ The blood is rushing to her ears, and now she can relate to Bruce, because this anger is the sort of slow-burning feeling that has been roiling in her for weeks, one that is finally reaching boiling point. “He’s not _broken_!”

The Allfather’s eye widens, and Darcy realizes belatedly that her words are echoing. She hadn’t even noticed when her ‘negotiation’ voice was replaced by shouting.

“You really do love him don’t you?” Odin murmurs.

“I thought we already established that,” Darcy says snappishly.

“That you are in love, yes. But…” He pauses, looking down at his wrinkled hands. Darcy mentally crows for winning the Staring Contest of Dominance. “Forgive me. I misjudged you.”

“I thought you gave that eye in pursuit of wisdom,” Darcy mumbles, perhaps a tad facetiously.

“An angry god is rarely a wise one,” Odin admits. “An _afraid_ god, even less so. I was not-” He pauses, and Darcy realizes that at his core, the Allfather is just an old man with many regrets and too much pride to right them. “I fear I was not the father I should have been to my sons.”

Darcy blinks.

“Maybe you should tell them as much,” she suggests.

“You don’t believe in holding grudges, do you?”

“Well, I mean, I really think you should apologize to Jane at some point for the livestock insinuation. But asides from that… No. Life’s too short.” Darcy laughs drily. “Or not, if you’re a god, I guess.”

“What would you do, with more time?” Odin asks.

“Hypothetically?”

He blinks.

“If you like.”

“Well, I still wouldn’t hold any grudges,” Darcy blurts out before she can thoroughly think through an adequate response.

_Pretty sure that’s not the right answer, Lewis._

The Allfather makes a coughing sound that might be a laugh (Darcy isn’t too optimistic about his sense of humour) and then he holds out a hand.

A single golden apple lies on his outstretched palm.

“You’re quite something… for a Midgardian,” he says with a twitch of his lips.

\--

“Would either of you two mind telling me why your dad gave me an apple?” Darcy asks as she walks into the hallway.

“Iðunn’s apples!” Thor exclaims. “Lady Darcy, you did it! We’re very prou-” He seems to finally catch on to the fact that his brother hasn’t said a word. “We are _both_ very proud of you,” Thor finishes emphatically, elbowing Loki in the stomach.

“Wait, Iðunn? As in… the apples of youth?” Darcy whispers, trying to remember more information from that Norse mythology book her father had insisted on reading cover to cover.

Thor nods before pulling an identical shining apple out of his sweater pocket.

“For Jane,” he explains. “I should-”

“Right, of course. Seeya, big guy.” Thor waves cheerily before bounding up the staircase, leaving Darcy alone with her still silent fiancé. She kicks at the linoleum floor, waiting for Loki to say something. Anything. “Sooo,” Darcy ventures. “You okay?”

Loki lets out a strangled sound and pulls her into his arms, while Darcy lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. His heartbeat is steady against her ear, and nuzzled into his chest, his hold feels like warmth and comfort and _home_.

“Alright, alright, break it up! Leave some room for Jesus,” Tony’s voice reverberates down the hall. “Pepper has assigned me with the task of informing you and Twinkletoes that it’s time for your dance class.”

Darcy jumps back, but Loki only smiles slowly, wrapping an arm around her waist like it’s second nature to him.

“Oh, Pony Boy, by the way,” Tony adds as he watches them enter the elevator. “I invited Fury to your bachelor party.”

Loki just sighs.

Darcy is increasingly aware of his touch on their elevator ride up to the fourth floor. A finger brushing the hair out of her eyes. A hand gently rubbing circles at the small of her back. A kiss to her forehead so fleeting that it might be a figment of her imagination.

Dance class does nothing to help her relax. The inherent closeness of waltzing together only makes Darcy’s heart thump even more wildly. Luckily, the instructor ends the class a full hour early, declaring them ‘a fine, fine pair’ (Darcy might think that he finds a particular _half_ of that pair especially fine, but that would sound almost jealous of her).

After a dress fitting with Frigga (which takes approximately zero seconds, since the gown fits perfectly), Pepper lets Darcy off the hook for the rest of the day. Jane skips out on the remaining meetings (“ _Plate settings_ , Darce! I mean, seriously. Who even notices that? And is it just me or did all of those ‘shades of white’ look the exact same?”) and joins Darcy in a Grey’s Anatomy marathon before the bachelorette that Pepper insisted on organizing…

\--

“I’ll be right back!” Darcy shouts over the music, slowly shuffling up the stairs in her heels.

She can still make out the not-so-gentle strains of Lady Gaga from the next floor as she takes a seat on the ground. Her head feels muffled, like everything is just a little fuzzy – stage 4 of Darcy Lewis Drunkenness, apparently, at least according to the scale Jane came up with after the infamous tequila incident. (Testing alcohol tolerance on an empty stomach wasn’t such a great idea, for future reference.)

“Darcy?”

She didn’t even hear him sneak up on her, but Loki is now looming over her, casting a shadow against the opposing wall. Darcy wordlessly holds her hands out to him, and Loki rolls his eyes but dutifully grabs Darcy’s hands, helping her to her feet.

“You look nice,” she says accusingly, freeing one of her hands to poke him right in the white-shirt-clad chest. “’s not fair.”

“‘If we offend, it is with our good will,’” Loki quotes, catching Darcy’s hand in his before she can poke him again. “‘That you should think we come not to offend, but with good will.’”

“There you go again,” she grumbles. “Quoting Shakespeare like some jerky… jerk.” Loki grins rakishly. “How do you do it?” Darcy muses. “You always make me wanna punch your stupid face and also kiss you in one swell foop.” She giggles. “One fwell- oh, that’s not right, either.”

“Darcy, you’re drunk.” A round of shrieks comes from downstairs, and Darcy buries her head in the crook of Loki’s neck, because the room is spinning and also he smells good and _not_ like jello shots.

“That’s the idea, poopface.”

“Close your eyes, sweetling,” Loki murmurs, and Darcy does, feeling the dizziness slip away in a golden glow. “Better?”

“Mmm. Almost.”

She keeps her eyes closed, lips spreading into a smile as his mouth meets hers for a brief moment.

“How about now?” Loki whispers into her ear.

His teeth nip gently at her earlobe before making a path down her neck, blunt enamel dragging across her skin before his tongue darts out to lave at the dip of her collarbone. Darcy feels her back hitting the wall, and she uses the new support to leverage herself up, arms wrapping around his shoulders as her legs open, letting his hips land between her thighs.

“Much better,” Darcy murmurs, trapping his mouth with hers. Her fingernails dig into his back, raking down his shoulders as his hips jolt against her, hitting her just right and sending little bursts of white light behind her eyelids.

“Are you mine?” he asks breathlessly, one hand sliding down to cup one of her breasts while the other cups her ass, keeping her pressed to him.

“If you can convince me,” Darcy whispers challengingly, head thrown back as his hand keeps sliding down, down, down, until he’s rucking up her skirt – thank God for easy access – and his fingers are rubbing at her through the damp fabric between her legs.

Loki scatters open-mouthed kisses across her collarbones, his breath hot against her skin, while those long fingers keep playing at that bundle of nerves, pausing whenever she feels herself tensing up, keeping her on the edge of actually coming.

He won’t let her, she realizes. Not unless she plays this game. She can only put up with a minute of this sweet torment before she gives in.

“Stop teasing,” she whimpers, and it must be good enough, because Loki’s fingers immediately speed up, and this time he doesn’t stop until her muscles are trembling and every nerve in her body is standing at attention.

With a final gasp, Darcy quakes apart, fireworks going off behind her eyelids.

“Until tomorrow,” Loki murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips, and then Darcy is alone again, her limp-noodle legs barely keeping her balanced in this stupid pair of heels.

“Right,” she sighs into space. “Tomorrow.”

\--

Darcy sighs as she sinks into the couch cushions between Jane and Pepper. Maria hands her a beer with a knowing look, and a wide smile breaks across Pepper’s face.

“So, you didn’t happen to run into a certain God of Mischief on your way to the bathroom, did you?” Jane whispers, and Darcy turns bright red.

 “Aha!” Tasha jumps up. “Ten bucks! Pay up, Foster.”

Darcy blinks.

“Wait. How did you-”

“Well, I might have… _suggested_ that Tony tell his Norse friends what happens at bachelorette parties,” Pepper admits, taking a sip of wine. “And well, you know how guys can be a little possessive.”

Jane blushes.

“Oh, no… Pepper, tell me you didn’t imply that there would be strippers,” Darcy groans. Pepper doesn’t answer. “PEPPER!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *adds an extra thousand words to placate my baes who I made wait so long for an update*  
> leave comments/kudos/love/hugs/first children below <3


	15. Her Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Darcy get married... with literary references and also Darcy making jokes worthy of a goddamn fun dad.

Darcy is stumbling blearily out of the bathroom when she freezes, mere inches from colliding headfirst with an equally stunned Loki – and yes, sharing living quarters with the trickster god should have made her accustomed to his inconvenient habit of skulking the halls like an over-sized cat, but Darcy maybe possibly wasn't thinking clearly, and without her glasses, everything is basically one blurry dark mass to begin with. She lets out what she will later deny is a raptor-esque shriek, and almost strikes a ninja pose before regaining 12% of her senses and slipping instead into a _super_ relaxed lean against the doorjamb.

"Sujhdg," she squeaks, clearing her throat before trying again. "I mean… sup?" The words seem to drag themselves out of her mouth, the final P snapping obnoxiously in the echoey hallway. "Fancy seeing you here, of all places. In our apartment." Loki blinks. "The one we share," Darcy feels the need to clarify, in case her use of ‘our' was somehow insufficient.

Loki grunts noncommittally, his gaze dropping to the ‘I'm so Thor-y' slogan emblazoned across the front of Darcy's T-shirt (a gift courtesy of Jane). Upside down, silk-screened Thor looks less apologetic and more... _unimpressed._ Belatedly, Darcy registers Loki’s open perusal of her boobs, and before she can think of a cutting remark, her towel is flying through the air.

Loki doesn't even flinch when the fluffy terry cloth projectile connects with his face, and Darcy can't quite resist checking out the way the (very, very shirtless) god’s flannel pyjama pants hang from his hips. _Because, god damn, his abs are doing the_ thing _. The ‘V' thing._ And it’s hard enough not to stare when his muscles are like fucking arrows pointing to his crotch, but the temptation to look is magnified by the realization that Loki has made zero effort to remove her towel from its precarious position over his head.

Flustered, Darcy swiftly launches into a tirade about sneaking around in dark hallways like frickin' Gollum, not that he'd know who that is, and ‘really, what was he thinking? what if she hadn't been dressed? _what if she had been in nothing but her towel?_ what **then**?!'

Loki shrugs wordlessly, not moving to remove Darcy's towel from his face, but his muscles tense for a moment, and if she were still looking – which she _definitely_ isn't – she would notice the effect that particular mental image has on his lower half...

Nonetheless, Darcy flushes pink at her own statement, now overtly conscious of what little clothing she _is_ wearing: her T-shirt only hits about mid-thigh, and the way the white fabric clings to her still-damp skin makes Darcy's hands itch to reclaim her towel.

"Don't look!" she warns (see: yells), grabbing the fabric and clutching it to her chest like a security blanket.

"Not so _loud_ ," Loki grumbles, dutifully keeping his eyes shut.

Prince Grumpsalot is acting remarkably withdrawn this morning. Normally by this hour he'd have reprised one of his ongoing rants about ‘acts of thievery' regarding his oh-so-precious hair supplies.

(And so what if Darcy borrows his conditioner occasionally? Okay, daily... what, like the guy _needs_ an entire gallon of aromatic oils/the tears of orphans? Besides, surely Frigga raised her son to understand the basic tenet that sharing is caring. And Darcy’s hair feels so _soft_ now.)

"Are you... hung-over?"

Loki lets out a low groan that Darcy takes as confirmation, and she gives him a quick once over. _Just making sure he's still got all his limbs and features_ , she rationalizes, quickly concluding that he is indeed all in one piece, and that, loathe as she is to admit it, he wears ‘night of debauchery' pretty well. _No surprises there_.

The god’s hair is uncharacteristically mussed, a departure from his usual carefully groomed black locks, and Darcy smothers the impulse to run her fingers through it – her ‘quick once over’ has already taken a detour into outright ogling.

Loki coughs dryly, and Darcy starts at the sound. She looks up to find heavily lidded green eyes lazily meeting hers, rendering her old fallback – the ‘Darcy Feigns Casualness And Pretends This Didn’t Happen’ – an impossibility.

"I- It-" Darcy racks her brain for an excuse. "Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding!" she says inanely.

"Then don’t look," Loki murmurs.

If Darcy still held any hope that Loki hadn’t noticed that awkward little interlude, she can consider it sufficiently snuffed, because Loki’s voice has deepened into a definite Seductive Purr™, and his hangover appears to have been miraculously cured, if his now restless hands are anything to go on.

"That’s- that’s not how it works!" Darcy argues pointlessly, twitching when Loki’s only response is to hum complacently, his arm roping itself around her waist to tug her closer. "It’s the groom who can’t…" Darcy trails off, relaxing into Loki’s hold despite herself. She grumbles something about tradition, but finally shuts up, letting her hands fall to his bare chest.

Her towel slips to the floor, forgotten.

" _Fuck_ tradition," Loki growls, and Darcy doesn’t need to be a mind-reader to know what he’s referring to. "In another world," the god muses aloud, "one where Miss Potts wouldn’t disembowel us for even contemplating our escape, we run away and elope instead."

_In another world_ , Darcy doesn’t point out, _we might not be getting married at all._

But something tells her that Loki has always been an inevitability, from the day they met. Even if it weren’t for this arrangement, even if he had simply wooed her with dresses inexplicably turning green over the course of the night and the brusque honesty that belied the stiff courtesies of Asgardian society… even then, she thinks she’d fall for him every damn time.

It’s hard not to want to play along, to make-believe. To contemplate the what-if’s.

"You whoosh-whoosh us to Las Vegas," Darcy suggests. "And we get a Barry Manilow impersonator to officiate."

Loki must catch the ensuing mental image of his doppelganger staring down a middle-aged man with 70s hair wearing a purple crushed velvet blazer, because his lips quirk up into a smile.

"How dreadfullyromantic," he remarks sardonically.

"Our press release will say so," Darcy nods, her nose brushing against the ridge of his collar bone. "I mean, the papers are already calling us ‘the love story of a century.’" Evidence, in her books, that the universe is out to get her. That, and the obvious takeaway that Time Magazine needs a new editor-in-chief.

"Well, if _they_ say so, it _must_ be true."

"Is that sarcasm I detect?" Darcy grins, lifting her chin to catch a glimpse of the expression on his face.

"Absolutely not," Loki says, all faux sincerity, but his lips twitch. "Pumpkin."

"Oh shut up. You know you love me," Darcy sniffs, and _hey,_ remember when you thought that just blurting out whatever you were thinking was a good idea, Lewis? Yeah? Remember how that never _happened, in the history of ever?_

"Quite right," Loki calmly assents, and clearly _he_ doesn’t realize that there is a crisis – we’re talking Cuban Missile level, here – going on right now, because he just buries his head in Darcy’s neck and stifles a yawn.

His breath is hot against her skin, and Darcy shudders as her skin erupts into gooseflesh.

"Lok-" she starts, and at this moment, JARVIS makes a freakily realistic _hem-hem_ noise.

The couple jumps apart just in time to hear the front door opening.

"Darce!" Jane calls out. "Get out of bed before I start reciting every fact I know about Erwin Schrödinger-"

Loki disappears in a shower of gold sparks (not without stealing a kiss first), and Darcy is shooting down the hall before Dr. Foster can say another word.

\--

When Darcy asks if she should pack an overnight bag, Jane rolls her eyes and assures her that ‘it's all taken care of.'

In an act of obstinacy, Darcy still stuffs her phone charger, a John Grisham novel she has no intention of reading, and a pair of socks (because a honeymoon in ‘the land of the ice and snow’ is no laughing matter, and also she isn't sure if Thor wasn't totally serious when he said the palace was carved out of an iceberg) into her purse.

She hesitates before also rummaging through her underwear drawer and grabbing the still-perfectly-ripe golden apple hidden under a lacy thong Natasha foisted on her... not exactly the most dignified of hiding places for the Gift of Youth, but whatever. Darcy snatches up the apple – and, upon reflection, the thong – and adds those to her bag, too, avoiding Jane’s searching look.

Tasha is waiting for them in the parking lot, and Darcy tries not to seem nervous as she steps into the freshly glowing mark in the asphalt.

"Beam us up, Heimdall," she sighs, her stomach already churning.

It’s a little like the drop of a roller-coaster, and a little like the spin cycle on a washing machine, a sensation of breaking-apart-coming-together that can never be quite familiar. Darcy takes a deep breath when Asgard finally comes into view.

‘Neutral territory.’ That’s what Frigga said when she explained where the wedding was to take place. It’s also what Darcy reminds herself as she steps off the Rainbow Bridge and directly into the path of an army of curtsying handmaidens.

Darcy sees the logic in the decision, of course. Hold the wedding on Earth, and you’re guaranteed to induce mass panic when the news spreads that several hundred alien wedding guests will be in attendance. Hold the wedding on Jötunheim, and the media makes Darcy out as some sacrificial lamb being sent off to appease the Evil Blue Smurfs.

But as she faces down a line-up of Asgard’s Next Top Model contestants, with their simpering giggles and thinly-concealed judgemental stares, Darcy is struck by the same thought that came to her when she first visited Asgard: she has entered the lion’s den.

When she says as much to Tasha, hoping to be told that it's just the wedding jitters talking, the Black Widow casts a proud smile at her and says she would have made a good agent.

Darcy does not find this reassuring.

\--

Here’s what anxiety feels like: sweaty palms and too-short breaths, and this dry-mouth taste that won’t go away. It's a persistent, roiling stomach, and trains of thought that are all headed straight for the worst case scenario (falling on one's face in front of a thousand alien diplomats, for a completely random example).

Darcy has to fight the urge to _Runaway Bride_ the hell out of here as she stares down the imposing set of double doors in front of her, swallowing back bile, and just generally loving life.

Then the music starts, and the doors swing open: her cue to get walking. She ignores all the sets of eyes tracking her progress down the aisle, setting her shoulders and making a straight-ish beeline for the only familiar face in the room.

For once, Loki isn't smirking.

His eyes are unguarded, widening as he takes in the delicate sweep of snowy white lace against Darcy's skin, and Darcy feels a bright blush diffuse across her cheeks. She can't help drawing comparisons to those cheesy bride and groom statues that stand guard over wedding cakes, waxen faces permanently frozen in manic glee. Except _her_ soon-to-be-hubby is wearing a green cape.

The silk train of her wedding dress pools at her feet as Darcy comes to a halt at Loki's side, and she bites her lip nervously. The god clenches his jaw, the line of his throat working as his Adam's apple slides up and down in an unmistakable _gulp_.

"Friends," Odin's voice booms.

"...Romans, countrymen," Loki whispers out of the corner of his mouth, like their wedding ceremony is the perfect opportunity for a dorky literary reference.

"Dammit, Loki, if you quote Shakespeare during the consummation, I'm gonna punch you," Darcy whispers back, staring straight ahead.

Odin doesn't pause in his opening remarks, but Darcy could swear she spots a twinkle in his eye.

\--

The thing about hand-fastings is that in practice, cutting your own fucking palm is 1) not fun and 2) kinda super painful. The fact that ritual dictates keeping the newly weds' hands bound together for the remainder of the evening just adds an extra layer of shittiness.

Darcy's skin itches, her palm is sweaty, and the small cut on her hand burns at the edges. Plus, to quite literally add insult to injury, she's being forced to _hold hands_. With Loki. For an entire evening.

"So that's a no to the father-daughter dance, then?" her dad jokes after the ceremony. Darcy glares at him, because having to navigate a formal banquet with only her left hand isn't _that_ amusing, dammit. Jerky Jerkysson even has the sheer audacity to offer to spoon-feed her. Darcy is quick to shoot down that suggestion, and manages just fine on her own, thankyouverymuch. Seriously, she should get a medal for her ingenuity in the face of crises/evil entrées of roasted venison.

Despite Darcy's valiant efforts to work around the ribbon handcuffing them to each other, however, Sweetums keeps _conveniently_ forgetting that his arm is attached to her's. Over the course of their meal, Loki has succeeded in incrimentally dragging his ‘lovely wifey' (his words, not hers) onto his lap. His free hand is curled possessively over Darcy's thigh, ostensibly to make sure she doesn't fall over. To prevent any attempts at migrating northward, Darcy assures her darling hubby-wubby that she'll ensure he _does_ fall over when her elbow makes the acquaintance of his groin. Loki, not cowed in the least, gladly proposes other things she could do while ‘acquainting' herself with his family jewels.

Darcy almost chokes on her wine.

The god acts oblivious, both to his bride's coughing fit and to the indulgent grins of their diplomat well-wishers, who are _clearly_ misinterpreting the situation, if their winks and hints about ‘young love' are sincere. Even Jane, traitor that she is, calls them ‘cute.'

Darcy just prays that Tony – who appointed himself official wedding photographer the second he learned that "no, Stark, _US Weekly_ is not covering the event" – is too busy taking selfies at the moment to snap a pic. And that her parents are being kept very distracted by her new in-laws.

She's actually grateful when the music starts up and their plates are cleared.

"Shall we dance?" Loki nudges her, and Darcy rises onto unsteady feet.

She fumbles awkwardly for wiggle room under the ribbon, and Loki helps loosen it with his seidr, grumbling about unnecessary parameters and blood magic, which... she's got to ask him about. Later. Much, _much_ later. Maybe when his thumb isn't rubbing soothing circles into her skin as Darcy's hand clasps over his, and her newly minted _husband_ – it seems an odd title, beside all her other names for him – isn't leading her smoothly onto the dancefloor and straight into a slow waltz.

"Don't let me go," Darcy warns, as Loki forgoes a twirl – _good call_ – in favour of a gentle dip. His free hand slides further down her back. "Because I will-" Loki's fingers splay out against the dip in her spine in an odd mimicry of his embrace this morning. "I will take you down with me," she finishes, her voice cracking.

"Don't you trust me?" Loki asks, not letting her up just yet, and Darcy resents his stupid, pretty, kissable face. She knows he's seducing her – _has been_ seducing her all day – and, well, it's fucking _working_.

"Only as far as I can throw you," she retorts, heart pounding in her ears.

The god tugs Darcy to him abruptly.

"Liar," he exhales.

"Says the frickin' human -" Loki sends them careening into a spin. "- humanoid -" Darcy amends. "- lie detector." ("Cheater," she adds, under her breath.)

"Well, you're also absolutely abysmal," Loki smirks.

She doesn't deny it.

"Aren't you a charmer."

"Tell me it isn't working," he says easily, tilting his head closer.

"I would, but an expert recently told me I'm bad at lying," Darcy flirts back, totally not glancing at his lips. Because that would be weird.

"I believe my exact wording was 'absolutely abysmal,'" Loki whispers against her mouth, before leaning in for a kiss.

They've stopped dancing now, focusing on much more important things: things like how quickly the gentle press of dry lips gives way to wet sliding tongues, and how unfair it is, that no matter how close they get, their bodies never seem close enough.

When Loki finally releases her – he's a damn ~~good kisser~~ lamprey, that one – the song has changed. And shit, this is _mortifying_. Even more so than making out like a couple of horny teenagers in the middle of an empty dancefloor.

So help her God, even Steve ‘what are the Star Wars' Rogers is clutching his chest like he just heard the funniest joke in the world, and hopefully none of the Jötunn ambassadors get what's going on, because Tony fucking Stark put (jazzified, cause he's classy like that) _Let's Get It On_ onDarcy's wedding mix.

\--

"Is that our cue to, as you say, ‘get a room'?" Loki asks after a moment, unperturbed, and Darcy decides that his pop culture crash course was clearly much too thorough.

"Can you not muster even a smidge of embarrassment?" she grumbles, letting him lead.

"A _smidge_?"

"Shut up."

With sure, practiced movements, Loki weaves them between the other dancing couples and toward the exit.

"So would you rather that I pretend?" he whispers softly, and the question doesn't sound quite like a flirtation.

"Aren't you already?" Darcy blurts out, and her footsteps stutter. Only Loki's firm grip on her waist prevents the almost-Queen of Jötunheim from tripping over her own feet.

"Sweetling, do you... _want_ me to lie to you?" Darcy doesn't answer, her cheeks heating under his gaze. "How easy," the god muses, lips quirking. As if there's something amusing here that Darcy isn't getting. "Pretending with you."

Loki's words are swallowed by the familiar glimmer of seidr winding itself around them, and God, why does that seem so intimate now, like she's being all cocooned in him, wrapped in pure power?

When the gold runes dissolve away, the handfasting ribbon disappearing along with them, Darcy doesn't have much time to take in her surroundings – it's a bedroom, that's about as far as she gets in her observations – before Loki's mouth is crashing onto hers.

"‘Pretending,'" he huffs against her lips, and Darcy swallows the word with a greedy kiss.

The god's hands grip the fabric at the small of her back, the press of fingernails dulled by a layer of lace. Darcy whimpers into his mouth when his tongue begins to trace the seam of her lips, everything blurring into _hot_ and _wet_ and a knot of _wanting_ rapidly uncoiling, turning fraying nerve endings into live wires.

Darcy is off-balance, and Loki's cape is falling off, but neither one could care less. Their teeth clack as they tear at each other's clothes impatiently; Darcy's attempts at finding some kind of a closure on Loki's pants are futile, at least in their goal of removing the garment, while Loki has managed to only half-undo Darcy's dress.

They break apart – after all, Darcy needs to do normal human things, like breathe – and Loki shrugs his clothes off in a careless display of magic.

Darcy stares, not even appreciating how quickly his recently freed left hand is now unclasping her bra as his other hand slides her zipper the rest of the way down. Then he's pulling her dress past her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, and she's tumbling backwards, landing on a bed that she could swear had been further away when she last looked.

Her elaborate updo has been demolished, tangled brown curls spreading over the sheets as Darcy's head sinks back.

Loki doesn't join her, and she's painfully aware of his eyes on her as she kicks off her heels and, in a fantastically awkward manoeuvre that may as well have been an East German dance move, slips off her panties. She's too exposed like this, is about to slap her thighs together when the mattress dips, and she sees Loki kneeling between her legs at the foot of the bed.

"Think you can handle all this, Ponyboy?" Darcy challenges, swallowing back her nerves.

"Don't call me that," Loki growls reflexively. "And I believe I've already ‘handled' you several times, much to your enjoyment."

"No need to act all _smug_ about it, Mischief."

"Of course, we're _pretending_ ," Loki murmurs, slowly dragging his fingers up her legs.

"Tease," she accuses, core clenching as his thumbs rub spirals into the paper-thin skin of her inner thighs, and Jesus, if they would just move a little _higher_...

"‘Earth in beauty dressed,'" the god quotes, pushing Darcy's legs further apart. He leans forward, his hair tickling her skin as his teeth press perfect semicircles into her hips, not quite breaking skin. "‘Awaits returning spring.'" He begins to pepper kisses along that softness between her hipbones, tongue tracing the slight curve of her belly, the dip of her navel, before he moves, achingly slow, down, down, down... His tongue flicks out to taste her, and Darcy can't contain a small gasp. "‘All true love must die,'" Loki breathes against her core, and Darcy tenses, hating herself a little when her inner muscles flutter traitorously at this relentless teasing. "‘Alter at the best -'" Finally, Loki latches onto her clit, tongue tracing some pattern she can't make out while his hands hold her bucking hips steady. "‘- into some lesser thing.'" Darcy can feel his eyes on her, his fingers spooling inward as he drifts up her body to _watch_ as she comes undone. She's quaking around curled digits, all self consciousness lost as she fucks herself on his hand. "‘Prove that I lie,'" Loki growls, and Darcy's head is thrown back, mouth open in a silent cry. "‘Such body lovers have, such exacting breath, that they touch or sigh,'" he continues, mercilessly coaxing her orgasm out of her. "‘Every touch they give, love is nearer death.'" Darcy falls limp, muscles spasming a couple more times around Loki's fingers before going lax. "‘ _Prove that I lie_.'"

"Want you," Darcy orders, brain still fuzzy from the afterglow – she's forgetting something, she's sure of it – and Christ, she's _still_ aching for him, aching for more.

Wrapping a hand around his length, she kisses Loki's neck, feeling his throat rumbling in a soft groan as her palm brushes across the head. Darcy repeats the motion once, twice more, and "Thought I said no Shakespeare," she mutters belatedly, guiding him to her entrance.

"That was Yeats," Loki corrects automatically, but the tense quivering in his shoulders belies his weakening illusion of control.

"‘Shall I compare thee to a summer's day,'" Darcy mocks, wrapping her arms around his neck and tilting her hips invitingly. "Really, really..." She breaks off as Loki starts to press into her, losing herself in the dull pleasure-pain of being filled, stretched open... Her core tenses at the breach, and Darcy winces, muscles fluttering in some instinctual drive to pull him in further. The god swears when he bottoms out, the tip of his cock just clipping her cervix, and then he just _stops_. "Really hot," Darcy chokes out at last, and maybe it's Loki's annoyed little huff that starts it, but suddenly they're both laughing, and Loki is slipping even deeper, sending little fiery sparks shooting up Darcy's spine, her muscles spasming around him.

"Good thing – _fuck, Darcy, you feel so good, sweetheart_ – you didn't woo me – _wet and hot and mine_ – with poetry..." Loki grits out, pulling out slightly and then _slamming_ back into her.

"Just sheer animal magnetism," Darcy gasps, hands scrabbling at his back, and Lokismothers a laugh in her neck, forearms sliding along the silky sheets until he's caging her in, his chest pressed to hers, that light dusting of black hairs brushing against her pebbled nipples as he begins to thrust.

She plants sloppy kisses on his cheek, along the delicate bones of his jaw, and finally their mouths collide, her tongue tracing the rough ridge of his teeth as Loki pants into her mouth.

"Darcy," he groans, and repeats her name over and over like it's a prayer, syllables broken up and separated by Darcy's own sighs until they've lost all meaning, carrying nothing but the weighty reverence in his voice. It's a cacophony of muffled invectives and breathy exhales, the obscene slap of skin on skin, the slippery glide of his cock through her growing wetness...

"Don't stop don't stop don't stop-" She's babbling, her cunt tightening impossibly around him, and Loki brutally snaps his hips.

"That's it," he moans, "Come for me – so beautiful, Norns above – come for me, sweetling," and then his cock hits some spongy spot inside her and she's being pushed over the edge; toes curling in soft bedsheets, sunspots dancing behind closed eyelids, fingernails scratching paths down his shoulders as her orgasm crashes over her, wave after wave.

Loki doesn't stop, is still fucking her through the aftershocks. His hips lose their rhythm as he chases his own release, filling her in long strokes as he finally comes, pumping into her again and again, falling boneless above her once his arms finally give out.

Darcy can feel his cock softening inside her, a trickle of cum slipping down her leg, and _why hasn't he pushed her away yet?_ Loki seems content to simply roll them onto their sides so he isn't crushing her, arms gently slung around her waist.

His sated green eyes meet hers, and Darcy needs to get away, needs to escape this too-comfortable intimacy before he does something stupid like say he loves her and _why did she even think that? Why would he...?_ Would _he? No, he wouldn't._

_He doesn't._

"I- this-" Her voice is intruding on the silence, cracking awkwardly as she tries to find something suitable to say, and Darcy can't help it; she pulls out of his embrace and gracelessly bolts, leaving the explanation of "... bathroom?" trailing mournfully in her wake.

\--

_wide-eyed, both in silence;_  
_wide-eyed, like we're in a crime scene_

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL THIS IS UP. FUCKING FINALLY. I honestly don't even have words for a) how shitty I am about updating (how has it been so long???) and b) how supportive y'all have been - consider this an enormous THANK YOU to everyone who reads and supports my work. I'm sorry I'm so slow lol. Please leave a review and let me know how it went - the sex scene was so hard to write, so I hope it, and the rest of the chapter, struck the right balance of fluff and feelings and sexy-ness that I'm aiming for. Also sorry for quoting a whole Yeats poem except I'm not actually that sorry (it's even called 'her anxiety' like if this isn't the most relevant shit to these guys and my very confuzzled Darcy Lewis then I don't know what is). Comments give me life (and ideas) so keep 'em coming!!  
> lots of love, eyesy


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